Tragic: Chapter 9

Baking was not my strength.

I ruined the first cake mix because of the piss-poor instructions on the damn box. It said to insert a toothpick until it came out clean. Betty Crocker and I had different opinions on what a fucking clean toothpick looked like.

Fifteen minutes longer in the oven than the box recommended and the toothpick still came out with a small crumb. The instructions should have read crumby, not clean.

But I got lucky because I’d baked that cake—or tried—before noon. Once I’d let it cool and tossed it in the trash, I’d gone back to the grocery store and started all over again.

The second time around, I baked the cake according to the median time on the box, then took it out. To hell with the toothpicks.

Why had I invited Piper over last night at the grocery store? Insanity.

I’d gone down for my weekly visit, and like always, it had been right before closing time. That’s when it was typically the quietest. The first few times I’d gone to the store, I’d been waved at, talked to and welcomed to town. People were too friendly in Lark Cove.

So I’d learned quickly to go in late, wear a hat to shield my face and emit a don’t talk to me attitude that made men give me the side-eye and women scoot their carts as far from mine as possible.

There hadn’t been anyone but me and the clerk in the store last night, so I’d let go of my edge. Then Piper had surprised me in the baking aisle, and I’d blurted out my invitation without thinking it through.

I’d planned on asking her to dinner casually. I was going to walk over to the camper and say, Hey, I made dinner. Want some?

If I screwed up the meal, it wouldn’t have mattered. I wouldn’t have invited her over. But since I’d lost my mind at the store, now there was all this pressure.

Now, this felt too much like a date.

We’d been having a blast these last couple of weeks in her camper. The sex just got better and better. But the last few times I’d walked home after leaving her bed, worries had kept me company in the dark.

Did she think I was just using her for sex? Piper was an incredible woman, and I didn’t want her to feel . . . cheap. When I left her camper every other night, I had nothing but respect for that woman.

Was she a friend? Not really. I didn’t have friends, not anymore. I didn’t want friends. Just like I didn’t want to be in a relationship with a woman ever again. But Piper deserved a little extra effort on my part than she’d gotten so far.

I’d hoped a nice, neighborly dinner would show her that she was more than a willing and able body to me.

We could have sex and occasionally share a meal without becoming serious. The idea was solid, my execution a disaster. All because she’d snuck up on me at the grocery store.

Did she think this was a date? Because it wasn’t, even though it smelled like one.

This isn’t a date.

I ran a hand over my beard, staring at the cake sitting on the counter. I glanced at the clock on the microwave and knew Piper would be here any minute.

Once she arrived, I’d get the grill going for the chops. Everything else was coming premade.

Everything except this cake.

A knock came at the door and I took one last look at the cake, hoping I’d made it right. The frosting wasn’t anything like the frosting on Piper’s magic cake. Hers had been even and smooth. Mine looked too thick on one side and too thin on the other. In one corner, there were cake bits crumbled in.

And I called myself an artist.

Piper knocked again and I left the cake to open the door.

“Nice chairs.” She nodded to the porch chairs I’d set out this afternoon after cleaning my house again.

I shrugged, side-stepping so she could come inside.

But she didn’t move. “Did you make those?”

“Yup.”

“They’re beautiful. I love them.”

Heat crept up my neck and my toes squirmed in my boots. “Come on in.”

She narrowed her eyes and still didn’t move an inch. “Do you not like it when people compliment your work?”

I grunted.

Piper frowned. “That’s not an answer to my question.”

“Are you going to come inside or not?”

“Not.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Fine.” I walked into the kitchen to get out the pork chops, leaving the door open.

She could stand out there all night if she wanted. But what we weren’t going to do was talk about my work.

No, I didn’t like compliments about my work. They made me twitchy. Some designers relished the praise. I just wanted to make the best furniture my hands could craft. Getting paid was a bonus.

Feedback on my work was hard to hear, even the good stuff. I didn’t know why. Maybe because each and every project was something personal.

My furniture was my passion. My art. It came from deep within my soul and flowed through my hands into the tools. Clients may give me guidance or direction, but each piece was mine.

My mother had once told me that my extreme humility was endearing. She’d also told me I was far too critical of my own work. She told me I invented flaws.

She just couldn’t see them. Hardly anyone saw the mistakes but they were there.

Like those Adirondack chairs. One of them was slightly shorter than the other by about half an inch. And on that smaller chair, the middle board of the backrest was slightly darker. It should have gone on the base, not the back.

When someone did point out a flaw, I didn’t just get twitchy. I flew off my rocker.

The one and only time I’d had a customer tell me they didn’t like what I’d built them, I’d told them to fuck off and sent them their deposit back. That piece was the coffee table in my living room.

It didn’t matter if people loved or hated them. That’s not why I built them.

“I like that you’re shy about your work,” Piper said from the door. “But I’m not going to stop giving you compliments. Your work is the best I’ve ever seen. You don’t have to acknowledge my comments. You don’t even have to say thank you. But I’m not going to stop telling you how much I love it.”

My frame deflated. She was just trying to be nice and I’d left her standing at the door. Then she’d said exactly the right thing. I glanced over my shoulder and nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Her shoes clicked on the floor as she came inside. As I plated the raw meat, the door clicked shut.

She went to the living room, setting down her purse on my coffee table. She bent and skimmed her fingertips over the table’s top, smiling as she admired the piece. But she didn’t gush over it like I’d expected. She let those dimples and the way her hands lingered on the wood tell me how much she liked it.

“Want something to drink?” I asked.

“Sure.” She sat down on my leather couch. “Whatever you’re having is fine with me.”

I washed my hands, then went to the fridge, getting out two bottles of beer. I popped the tops, tossing them into the garbage, then delivered one to Piper.

“I haven’t tried this yet.” She inspected the label before tipping it back to her lips.

“It’s a local brewery. They’re good.” I took a drink from my own bottle, still standing in the middle of the room.

Should I sit with her? Make small talk? Getting too close was dangerous. We’d never make it to dinner once that spark ignited. And I hated small talk.

I swallowed another gulp of beer. “I’m going to get the grill going.”

“Okay.” She stayed seated, turning her attention to the end table at her side. Again, she smiled at my work, touching it gently, but didn’t say anything.

I took it as my cue to escape outside and light the grill on the porch.

This isn’t a date. I repeated it over and over as I drained the rest of my beer, then I trudged back inside. This wasn’t a date. So there was no reason to avoid Piper. Right?

“Can I set the table?” Piper asked, standing from the couch as I went to the cabinet for my favorite seasoning.

“Sure.” Maybe it would be easier if she was moving around and making this dinner more of a joint effort. “Plates are in the cabinet next to the sink. Silverware in the drawer underneath.”

“Got it.”

While she bustled around the kitchen, I seasoned the pork chops. With every shake of the bottle, I inhaled a deep breath. After the fourth, my shoulders began to relax.

“Want another beer?” she asked as she set a plate on the table.

“Sure.” I glanced over my shoulder in time to see her guzzle the rest of her own beer. Okay, maybe I wasn’t the only one nervous about this dinner.

She went to the fridge, getting us each another beer. She handed me mine as I took the chops outside to the grill. Piper followed me out, taking a seat in the smaller chair as I went to the grill and put on the meat.

“They’re comfortable.” She ran her hand over the arm of the chair, then she grinned. “That was a fact, not a compliment.”

I chuckled. Her joke lightened my mood, and I crossed the porch. It was a risk to sit next to her, but one I took as I sank into the other chair. We sat quietly, looking out into the trees as we drank these beers more slowly than the first.

After about three minutes, the rest of my anxiety just blew away. My body relaxed into the seat. Sitting here with Piper was easy, like we’d done it for years, not moments. Nothing about this dinner needed to be awkward.

This was Piper. She wasn’t some strange woman I’d asked on a first date. We both knew and understood our boundaries.

We were lovers. We were neighbors. Nothing more. When tonight was over, she’d go to her property while I stayed on mine.

“How goes the remodel?” I asked.

“Good. They’re starting to put walls back in place so it feels like we’re finally getting somewhere.”

“And work?”

“Also good.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “This was the best week I’ve had in a long time.”

“Tell me about it.” With the way her face lit up, I didn’t want her to stop talking.

“Did I ever tell you that my brother is a veteran?” she asked and I shook my head. “Owen went into the military right after high school and served for about twelve years. He had a hard time coming home after his final deployment. A close friend from his unit committed suicide and it really affected him.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Me too. But he’s in a lot better place now. He found a job working with an organization that helps veterans like his friend. The Kendrick Foundation donates to them every year. And it has sort of become my pet project, finding other organizations like his who help veterans.”

Piper’s eyes sparkled whenever she spoke about her work. I was so lost in her face, I nearly forgot the food on my grill. “Shit. One sec.” I hurried to the grill and flipped the pork chops before they burned, then came back to my seat and nodded for her to continue.

“Not long after I moved here, I found an article in the Kalispell paper about this organization in Bozeman that helps veterans. They take them fly-fishing for a week and teach them a skill they can use to get some peace. I was skeptical at first, but their success rates are incredible. The testimonials from some of the participants are phenomenal. I pitched it to Logan, and today, we wrote them a million-dollar check to fund them for the next three years.”

“Nice job.”

She blushed. “Thanks. It was maybe the best donation we’ve made this year. Well . . . my personal favorite, I guess. If I hadn’t moved to Montana, I never would have heard about them. Logan and I are planning a trip down there in a week to deliver the check in person.”

“To Bozeman?”

“Yep.” She nodded. “That’s where they’re located.”

“Huh. I, uh . . . I grew up there.” That was the first detail about my past I’d shared with someone in Lark Cove.

The admission surprised me for a moment, but I didn’t regret sharing. Piper was a genuinely good person. While I found passion in my furniture, hers was supporting the causes she believed in most. I trusted her with a few minor details about my past.

“Do you still have family there?” she asked.

“My mom.”

If Mom still lived there. I hadn’t talked to her since I’d left Bozeman three years ago. She’d taken his side when everything had crashed, and I couldn’t forgive her for that choice.

“Do you go back often?” Piper asked.

“No, I don’t.” My tone was short, and I stood from the chair, going back to the grill.

We were treading on dangerous territory now. Piper wouldn’t learn about my family. I wouldn’t be sharing the reason why I’d left Bozeman. She didn’t need to know that I refused to return and that I’d blocked my mother’s number years ago.

The life I’d had in Bozeman was over. Dead. I’d buried it in a single grave.

I tested the pork chops, then shut the grill to give them a few more minutes. But I didn’t go back to my chair. I used the physical distance to reiterate that the discussion about my past was over.

“Most of my family is in New York.” She sipped her beer, taking the hint to let my past go. “My parents. Owen. Some aunts and uncles. They all think Montana is this wild and untamed wilderness where I’m most likely to be eaten by a bear. But I’m slowly convincing my parents to come out and visit this fall or winter. I think they’ll love it.”

“You grew up in New York?”

“Born and raised. I went to college at Columbia. Graduated and took a job working for the Kendrick Foundation.”

“Why’d you move? For work?”

“No.” She stared blankly at the label on her beer. “Divorce.”

And just like I was done talking about my past, she was done talking about hers.

“How’d you find this place?” she asked.

I pushed off the railing and went back to the chair, sensing it was safe again. “I was looking for a place to disappear.”

Of all people, I had a feeling that answer would resonate with Piper. She wouldn’t ask why. She wouldn’t need more details. She’d understand that this was where I’d come to suffer alone.

I looked over to her profile and found her dark eyes waiting.

She came here for the same reason.

Smoke from the barbeque drifted my way, and I forced my gaze away from Piper. “Want to grab the salads from the fridge and the rolls? I’ll bring these in.”

“Sure.” She stood, taking our beers inside.

Then we got ourselves situated to dish up and dive into the meal.

“This is fantastic,” she said after a few bites of her pork. “What did you do?”

I shrugged. “It’s a mole mix I made from scratch.”

She almost choked. “And you said you couldn’t cook.”

I grinned and took another bite. “I can’t cook much. But I rarely ruin my meat.”

She laughed just as her phone rang from her purse on the coffee table. “Shoot.” She tossed down her napkin and rushed across the room. “Sorry. I should have shut this off.”

I waved my fork at her. “It’s fine.”

“I, uh . . .” She looked at the screen with indecision on her face. “I better take this. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

She turned her back to me, taking a couple of steps down the hallway toward the bedroom and bathroom. My place was small, so no matter where Piper went, I heard her voice. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it was unavoidable as she hovered outside the bathroom.

“Hi.” Her voice was strained as she spoke quietly. “I’m kind of busy right now. Did you need something?”

I chewed one bite, then another as Piper stayed silent. I glanced over my shoulder to see her shoulders bunched up to her neck. Who was she talking to?

“I’m sorry you had a rough day.” She sighed. “I know it bothers you, but a couple of days off could be a good thing. I jus—”

The other person on the phone cut her off. I set down my fork, not even trying to pretend I wasn’t listening.

“Fine,” she clipped. “I’m sorry. But can I call you later to talk about this?”

She was quiet for too long to have gotten a simple okay.

I spun in my chair, my hackles rising as she hung her head. When her shoulders curled in on themselves, I nearly shot out of my chair. But I stayed put as she said a quiet, “Yes, I am.”

Who was this? Family? A friend? Whoever it was, I didn’t like how the air in the room had shifted. An icy blast from her phone was making our food cold.

I was seconds away from interrupting her when she snapped. “I’m not talking about this right now.”

The voice on the other end of the line got louder and Piper held it an inch away from her ear. Then she put the end with the speaker to her lips and blurted, “I have to go.”

I spun around to my plate as she turned and emerged from the hallway. She tossed the phone on top of her purse and returned to the table. Without a word, she grabbed her beer, tipped the bottom to the ceiling and drank it dry.

“Everything all right?”

She put a fist to her chest as the carbonation worked its way free. Then she grabbed her utensils. “My ex-husband hasn’t quite adjusted to our divorce yet.”

“I see.” I stood from my seat and went to the fridge, getting her another beer. When I set it down by her plate, she reached for it immediately and took a long drink. When she went back to her food, the fork and knife shook in her hands.

Piper was normally so collected and balanced. The only time I’d seen her lose it had been on the ridge. So what had the ex said to get her so riled up? Did I even have the right to ask?

Curiosity won out. “What does the ex-husband do for a living?”

“He’s an actor. He stars in one of the most popular shows on Broadway at the moment. It’s a demanding job. He works constantly and performs nearly every night. Except I guess the director put in his understudy tonight. Adam is getting sick or something. I don’t know. But he doesn’t like having anyone in his spotlight. He was upset and his first reaction is still to call me.”

“Hmm.” The guy sounded like a spoiled bitch. Definitely not someone I pictured Piper marrying.

I was stereotyping based on his job as an actor, but I bet the guy spent more time grooming in one day than I did in a month. He probably got manicures and regular massages too.

They were divorced, and unloading his problems on her was weak.

She needed a strong partner. Someone sure. Someone as sturdy as the wood slabs in my shop. Not because she couldn’t stand on her own, but because a weaker partner would pull her down. She needed someone to lift her higher.

Someone like me?

That thought sent ice through my veins. I wasn’t the guy for Piper. Maybe I could have been once. If I’d met her years ago, I might have deserved her.

But things had just changed too much.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she muttered, though it clearly was not.

We ate the rest of the meal in silence, each of us concentrating on our food rather than the company. Piper ate a few more angry bites but then lost her appetite, picking at her food while I finished the rest of mine.

“Want another beer?” I asked.

She dabbed the corner of her mouth, then gently set down her napkin. Her back was straight as an arrow, her shoulders poised. We were back to prim and proper now, were we? “No, thank you. This was a lovely meal.”

Lovely.

I shoved my chair backward to clear my plate, but when I caught Piper’s face from the corner of my eye, my ass slammed down in the seat.

The color of her skin was ghostly white. Her mouth was turned down. The brightness in her eyes had vanished, and the rich color I’d memorized weeks ago in her camper had dulled to a gray mud.

“What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

She shook her head. “What are we doing, Kaine?”

“Eating dinner.”

“No.” She shook her head, motioning between us. “What are we doing?”

Fuck. This was not the conversation I wanted to have tonight. “I thought we were just keeping things casual.”

“Do you think casual is going to end well?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed. “Why does it have to end?”

Weren’t we still having fun? Piper still crossed my mind all the time, but I’d finally figured out the answer to my question. Why her? Because she was special. I didn’t analyze my emotions. I didn’t dissect the way she made me feel. Over the last couple of weeks, I’d blocked all that out by focusing on the sex.

The routine we’d fallen into was working for me. And until thirty seconds ago, I’d thought it was working for her too.

“I wish . . .” She stared blankly at her uneaten roll, letting her words die in the room.

This dinner invitation had been an epic mistake.

“Let’s have some cake,” I offered. “Take it easy.”

“Actually, I think I’d better go.”

That stung more than it should have for a casual relationship. She stood from the table, lifting her plate, but I held out a hand.

“Just leave it. Just . . . leave.”

She winced at my dismissal, then bolted from her chair.

I stayed in mine, clenching my jaw as she collected her purse, slung it over her shoulder, then left without another word.

The door banged shut. Her footsteps raced across the porch. And then there was nothing.

Good. That’s what I’d come here for, wasn’t it?

I didn’t need my neighbor distracting me with her sexy dimples and big brown eyes. I didn’t need her temptation. What I needed was peace and quiet. Ever since she’d moved in next door, I hadn’t had either.

I rose from my chair, taking our plates over and slamming them in the sink. One broke in half. The other in fifths. Then I piled the other dirty dishes on top. Maybe I’d clean them later. Maybe not.

Who was I trying to impress?

As I turned to the fridge for another beer, my gaze caught on the cake I’d spent all day making.

I swiped it off the counter and carried it to the garbage, where it got thrown inside, pan and all.

Fuck you, cake. And the woman I made you for.