“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She was tempted to put another brief peck on his mouth, but he disappeared through the gap before she could. A fraction of a second later, she was looking at the wood panel instead of his handsome face and wondering if she’d hallucinated the entire thing.
“Hayden, Hayden,” she chastised gently as she engaged the lock and drew the chain. She turned and eyed the mugs of tea, Tate’s untouched and hers barely drunk. His lips hadn’t so much as grazed the edge of that mug.
But they were all over yours.
That spontaneous kiss had rocked her world.
She dashed to the window and peered out into the rain, hoping for one more glance at her nighttime visitor. A dark figure passed under a streetlamp, his shoulders under his ears, his hair wet all over again. Before he disappeared from sight, he turned to face her building and walked a few steps backward. She couldn’t see his face from that far away, but she liked to believe he was smiling.
She touched her lips.
So was she.
Three wet days later, the rain had downgraded from downpour to light drizzle. Even walking across the street to Summer’s Market yesterday for ingredients for blueberry muffins had left Hayden wet and cold. She’d returned home soaked to the bone, her hair smelling of rainwater.
Which, of course, reminded her of The Kiss from the other day. She hadn’t seen Tate since. Not that she’d expected him to stop by, but... Well, was hope the wrong word to use?
Over and over, she’d remembered the feel of Tate’s firm lips, his capable hands gripping her hips, the vulnerability in his smile. The ways his eyes shined with curiosity afterward.
Knowing she’d erased some of his sadness made her feel special. She was beginning to think she actually missed him. Odd, considering the concept of missing him was foreign until that kiss.
The chilly bite of the wind cut through her puffy, lightweight coat, and she tucked her chin behind the zipped collar as she crossed the street to the café.
Nothing better for walking off sexual frustration than a brisk November stroll.
She had an advanced yoga class in an hour and was tired just thinking about it. A hot cup of coffee would put some much-needed pep in her step.
She wasn’t the only resident of SWC taking advantage of the drier weather. Cold drizzles they were willing to brave. Drenching downpours, not so much. As a result, there was a buzz in the air, an audible din of chatter amongst the couples or single professionals lounging in the outdoor patio. It was closed off for the winter, the temporary walls and tall gas heaters making the space warm enough for the overflow of customers.
Inside, Hayden rubbed her hands together, delighted to find that the person in line ahead of her was finished ordering. The only thing better than a Sprightly Bean coffee at the start of a day was not waiting in line to get one. She ordered a large caramel latte and stepped to the side to wait. Not thirty seconds into her studying the glass case of doughnuts and other sinful baked goods, the low voice from her dreams spoke over her shoulder.
“I’ve seen regret before, and it looks a lot like the expression on your face, Ms. Green.”
Her smile crested her mouth before she turned. She thought she was prepared to come face-to-face with Tate until she did. His dark wool coat was draped over a charcoal-gray suit, his hair neatly styled against his head and slightly damp, she guessed from a recent shower. And wasn’t that a pleasant image? Him naked, water flowing over lean muscle, corded forearms, long, strong legs...
“Am I broadcasting regret?” she asked, her voice a flirty lilt.
He pointed at the bakery case. “Was it the éclair or the lemon–poppy seed muffin that caused it?”
“Hmm.” She pretended to consider. “I could be regretting my impulsive behavior three days ago.”
His eyebrows rose like she’d stunned him. She wasn’t much of a wallflower, which he should know after she’d grabbed him up and kissed him.
He opened his mouth to reply when a thin blonde woman glided around the corner, tugging a glove onto her hand. Claire.
“I’m ready to go,” she announced without preamble. Or manners. Or delicacy.
As if her frosty entrance had chilled them both, Hayden’s smile vanished and Tate retreated.
He nodded at Claire Waterson, his frown appearing both on his mouth and forehead. “Hayden, this is Claire. Claire, this is Hayden Green. She owns the yoga studio down the road.”
“Charmed.” Claire nodded curtly as she tugged on her other glove. No offer of a handshake, but Hayden didn’t want to shake the other woman’s hand, anyway.
“See you around,” Tate told Hayden.
She watched them leave, her forehead scrunching when Tate touched Claire’s back on the walk out to a car. He hadn’t walked to the café today. Hayden would bet Priss in Boots hadn’t allowed it.
“Grande caramel latte.” The cheery barista handed over Hayden’s coffee, and she managed a genial smile before walking out the front door, her steps heavy. Tate, in the driver’s seat, pulled away from the curb on the opposite side of the street. He didn’t wave, but did manage a compressed half smile.
While Hayden didn’t have any claim on him, she’d admit she felt like an idiot for believing him. He’d sounded so sincere when he said his relationship with Claire was over. Or had he implied it was over? Either way, if she’d had any idea Tate and Claire would be sharing morning coffee a few days later, Hayden never would have kissed him. From the looks of it, he and Claire were very much together.
Ew.
She started her march home, an unhealthy dose of anger seeping into her bloodstream. The first sip of her coffee burned her tongue, and the wind blew directly into her face, cold and bitter.
A series of beeps sounded from her pocket and Hayden’s back stiffened. That was her mother’s ringtone. It never failed to cause a cocktail of panic, fear and resentment to boil over. She ignored the second ring and then the third and, a minute later, the chime of her voice mail.
When Hayden left Seattle, it had felt like more of an escape. Her mother had been—and was still—stressed to the max, refusing to draw boundary lines around the one woman causing problems in their lives: Hayden’s alcoholic grandmother. Grandma Winnie favored drama and bottom-shelf vodka in equal measures, and Hayden’s mother, Patti, had turned codependency into an art form. Hayden’s dad, Glenn, was content to let the matriarchs rule the roost, as if he’d eschewed himself from the chaos in the only way he knew how: silence.
After years of trying to balance family drama with her own desperate need for stability, Hayden left Seattle and her family behind for the oasis of Spright Island.
By the time she was changing for her class, her coffee was cool and her mind was numb. She paused in the living room of her apartment, put her hands over her heart and took three deep breaths.
There was no sense in being angry at Grandma Winnie for being an alcoholic. It wasn’t her fault she had a disease. Similarly, she let go of worrying over her mother’s codependence and her father’s blind eye.
“Everyone is doing the best they can,” she said aloud.
But as she trotted down the stairs to the studio and unlocked the door for a few waiting guests, she found that there was one person in her life she didn’t feel as magnanimous toward.
The man who’d kissed her soundly, scrambled her senses and then showed up in town with the very woman he claimed had left him