What Happens Between Friends. Beth Andrews
to flick over the pulse beating at the base of her neck. Even when she was still, there was an energy about her, like an electrical current, one pulsating with life.
It called to him, had always called to him, pulling him in, daring him to touch, to feel that zing coursing through his blood, just once.
Tearing his gaze from her, he held his water between his knees, stared at the floor. But he could feel her next to him, the brush of her leg against his outer thigh, the shifting of the seat when she stretched, arching her back. Could hear her soft breathing, the low, melodic tune she hummed softly.
He’d sought her out tonight. He hadn’t wanted to, but it seemed no matter where he was, what he was doing, who he was talking to, he couldn’t stop from seeking out the sound of her laugh, the sight of her light brown hair. She was like a butterfly in her bright, colorful clothes, in how she fluttered from a conversation with his grandfather about how to make a foolproof marinara sauce to entertaining a group with tales about tending bar in the French Quarter to coaxing his seven-year-old nephew to dance.
She captivated him. He wondered if he would ever get free.
“You ready to go?” he asked, his voice gruff.
She sat up. “Sure.”
They walked down the driveway and rounded the front of the house.
“It’s good to be home,” Sadie said as they crossed toward the garage, her tone soft. Hesitant. “But the best part about being home is being with you. I just...I wanted you to know that,” she said quietly.
She sped up, leaving him to gape at her as she went into the garage for the stray dog.
He wasn’t sure what that had been about, wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
It’s good to be home.
He’d never heard her admit that before. Never would have believed that she could actually mean it. But even it was true, it was only temporary. Everything with her was temporary. Her jobs, her relationships, her goals and dreams—they changed based on her whims, on where she was living and who her friends were at any given moment. She may be glad to be in Shady Grove, but she wouldn’t stay.
Her leaving was the only reliable thing about her.
* * *
SADIE PADDED INTO James’s kitchen, Elvis at her heels, the wood floor cool under her bare feet. She flipped on the pendent lights over the center island and crossed to the refrigerator.
Good Lord, even the inside of his fridge was immaculate and so organized it could be in an appliance commercial, with a place for everything and everything in its damned place. Well, she thought, helping herself to a Golden Delicious apple, at least she didn’t have to worry about catching some deadly disease by eating his food.
Unlike when she spent the night with Doug, her last boyfriend.
She was glad to be rid of him and all those penicillin samples he grew in his refrigerator.
She just wished she’d been the one to end things.
Washing the apple, she looked out the window at James’s side yard. When she’d first seen his house, she’d been surprised. Not by the workmanship; she’d expect nothing less than the best from him and Montesano Construction. No, what had shocked her was that instead of a traditional, two-story house with an attached garage—and the same boring floor plan as half the houses in town—he’d gone with a log home design.
Guess even lifelong friends could surprise each other every now and again.
And, yes, he’d explained how his house combined contemporary design with waterfront, coastal and cottage elements and blah, blah, blah. Biting into the apple, she leaned against the counter. All she knew was that it was gorgeous, with vaulted ceilings, dozens of tall, narrow windows and a stone fireplace. A house that reflected well James’s love for rich woods, deep colors and simple furnishings.
The first floor consisted of a master suite, a small bathroom and laundry room and a country-style kitchen that opened into a huge great room. Upstairs, a loft overlooked the great room with a bedroom on each side, along with another bathroom. In the kitchen, he’d chosen wide, rough-hewn pine beams for the ceiling, narrower boards for the floor. Whitewashed, glass-front cupboards and slate-gray counters.
He had a good eye, she thought as she opened an upper cabinet and took out a jar of peanut butter and a box of crackers. At least architecturally. When it came to interior design, he still had a lot to learn.
It was like you were in a plywood box—wood, wood and more wood.
If this was her place, she’d switch things up. Add some color and visual interest with a tile design on the center island, fill the cupboards with thick, white ceramic dishware. She munched on a cracker, her eyes narrowed as she studied the room. A throw rug under the high-back wooden stools and a window treatment for softness, both with hints of burgundy...maybe even yellow for warmth.
Yeah, she thought, eating another cracker, that’s what she’d do. She’d turn this boring, bland house into a warm and welcoming home.
The cracker tasted like sawdust. Her scalp prickled with unease. With a sense of foreboding.
The sense that she was missing something by not having a place like that for herself.
Which was ridiculous. She didn’t want a home. Not a permanent one, anyway. Roots were well and good for her mom and sister—they didn’t mind being stuck in the same town, surrounded by the same people, doing the same things over and over again. Day after day. Year after year.
You might be able to have both roots and wings, but you couldn’t fly, couldn’t have true freedom with your feet planted in the ground.
That’s what she had, she assured herself, digging a spoon out of the utensil drawer before taking her food into the great room. Freedom. Choices. The ability to take off for new adventures or opportunities whenever the mood struck her.
The ease of leaving behind a crappy apartment, friends who were barely more than acquaintances and men she’d never really loved anyway when things went belly-up.
“Things always go belly-up,” she whispered to Elvis as she settled onto the couch.
With a sigh that was made up of more oh-woe-is-me than any self-respecting, independent woman should experience, she curled her legs under her.
The moon shone through the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows and cast dappled shadows across the braided rug in the middle of the room. Like the kitchen, this room, too, was a study in browns—plush leather couch and two armchairs the color of chocolate, russet-and-tan oval braided rug, oak coffee and end tables.
The man really needed some color in his life.
Built-in shelves filled with books and framed photos lined both sides of the fireplace and a large, flat-screen TV hung on the opposite wall. When they had gotten to his house after the party, James had helped her give Elvis a bath before calling it a night. Though she was exhausted, Sadie had tossed and turned for hours on the comfy double bed in the guest room upstairs.
“What are you doing up?”
She squeaked and almost dropped her spoon. Sticking it into the peanut butter, she glared at James. “You about gave me a heart attack, sneaking up on me in that ninja way of yours.”
“Please tell me I’m sleepwalking,” he said from his bedroom’s doorway, his deep voice gravelly, Zoe at his side, “and you’re not really eating my peanut butter straight from the jar.”
“I’m not really eating your peanut butter from the jar,” she said around the spoon in her mouth. “You’re sleepwalking. It’s all just a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.”
James crossed to the floor lamp and turned it on—the better to illuminate his adorable scowl. He was so cute, trying to be all stern and angry with her.
Thank God that would never happen. He was too sweet,