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  I want to ask why, but voices from outside carry into the building as my brothers and dad come back.

  “Your mom is still feeling under the weather, so I’m going to take her to the doctor after we’re done,” Dad says. “You guys think we can get these bikes put together quickly?”

  Carter hands me a coffee. “Good luck getting her to the doctor, Dad. She’s going to fight you. It’s a cliché that doctors make the worst patients for a reason.” Carter squints at me, and then uses his napkin to blot the tear track on my cheek. He shoots Charlie a look, and then brings his gaze back to me. I shake my head. It isn’t Charlie’s fault I cried. I actually don’t even know what brought the tears on. But I don’t want him blamed for it.

  I get to work on the bike again, trying to focus so I don’t obsess over the things Charlie said. What is wrong with me that I straddle the line between wanting to hide from men and desperately wanting Charlie to find me worth looking for?

  You’re a slut.

  No.

  Logically, I know I didn’t do anything wrong. It was Alan with the messed-up view about sexuality. But logic didn’t help. Not when it mattered most. Not when everyone witnessed my humiliation.

  It wasn’t Alan who lifted his shirt for the camera. That was all on me, but why had I done it? Logic hadn’t applied then either. At the time, it felt empowering, but that doesn’t make sense. How was it empowering to give men a look at my body, to view me as a sexual thing to be gawked at?

  At the same time, it isn’t empowering to hide my body, to be ashamed of wanting to enjoy sex. The one time I tried it certainly hadn’t been empowering.

  But where does that leave me now? Neither having sex nor hiding from sex has made me feel good, so where does a woman go from there? I’m not a slut. Not in the hateful way Alan tried to imply. Wanting sex—wanting to be wanted—isn’t shameful. Why can’t I get rid of his voice in my head?

  I feel Charlie’s stare like a physical touch, but I ignore it. For now.

  What would it be like to just pretend I am normal? While Charlie is here, in town. He isn’t a forever guy. He won’t be here long, and he notices me. Maybe it is only because I am some kind of challenge. He probably has women throwing themselves at him all the time, so of course the one who hangs back is going to get noticed. But I can use that, can’t I? I don’t want forever. I’m too screwed up to even think about forever. But replacing Alan as the last man who touched me isn’t a horrible idea.

  I let my own gaze drift to Carter. He is pretending to build a bike, but he is intently watching Charlie, concern etched on his forehead.

  Carter wants me to move forward with my life. He practically gift-wrapped Charlie for me.

  But Carter doesn’t know Charlie the way I do. Would it be fair to use him to get over my lack of confidence? He’s already been used. Would that put me in the same category as the woman who took his virginity?

  That is icky. He deserves better.

  Everyone would be better off if I went back to blending into the woodwork.

  There. That settles that. Charlie is only here for a few more days. I’ll simply go back to being my normal, quiet self. He’ll get the hint. He’ll move on. I’ll move on. Everything will be okay. I twist the wrench one last time, making sure the bike is safe.

  Being safe is important in this world.

  Tagged: Chapter Eight

  Charlie

  EMILY IS HIDING FROM me.

  I watch the way she does it, noting when each of her family members notices her withdrawal and when they decide to allow her the space. She has little poker tells. Quiet smiles that aren’t real. The way she deftly turns conversations back to any subject that isn’t her. The way she finds tiny chores that pull her away but make her appear to still be present. The way she finds pockets of solitude in a house full of people.

  I’m not the only one who notices, but I’ll bet she thinks she has them all fooled. Her family loves her, worries about her, but doesn’t push her.

  I really want to push her. I shouldn’t have told her she scares me. It made her pull back too much.

  I respect her need for quiet. For solitude. But I resent the space she puts between us. It’s her right, of course, but I hate it. I hate that she thinks she needs it. Hate that it isn’t even about me. It’s about Alan.

  Alan the weasel.

  But what can I do? Spend the rest of my time in Maple Grove convincing her to move on from the weasel and then leave her just when she comes around?

  It’s been almost forty-eight hours since we built the bikes. I haven’t been alone with her since. My time is coming to a close. I saw my car yesterday. It’s almost done. A real beauty. Midnight blue with a white nose stripe. A 454 under the hood and sitting on seventeen-inch chrome racing rims in the front and eighteen in the rear for a great muscle car stance.

  And when her interior is done, I’ll be on my way. Riding out of town like the Lone Ranger at the end of every episode. Better for having known Emily.

  I can’t stop thinking about the night she hugged me. It began so awkwardly, but then something changed. At least it had for me.

  Was it platonic? Hell no. But it hadn’t been a prelude to sex either. And touching her, being touched, fundamentally changed something inside me. A seismic shift.

  But not the same for her.

  I want inside her. I want to claim her. Make her mine. Part of me wants to make slow, sweet love to her. But I’ll be honest, part of me wants to fuck her into the mattress. I want her to get dirty and nasty as fuck. I want to find what gets her off and set her free. I want her addicted to my cock and I want to cover her in my cum.

  But that isn’t going to happen.

  She doesn’t want to see where this can go—because we both know it’s going nowhere. I was upfront with her about noticing her, and she stopped talking to me. Can’t get more straightforward than that.

  But that doesn’t stop my gut from clenching because she is ignoring me.

  After dinner, the family gathers around the television for yet another Christmas movie—this one a black and white deal. I’m bored but also absorbed by watching this family interact with each other. It’s like a really well-run unit.

  Amy’s husband pauses the movie so she can go put the baby down, and my attention goes straight to Emily, like it always does.

  “Mom, you look exhausted. Why don’t you call it a night?” she says. There are deep lines furrowed over the bridge of her nose. Someday, some guy is going to have the right and the privilege to kiss them smooth.

  “I can’t. It is Miracle on 34th Street night.”

  Emily sends a glance to Carter, and he picks up the argument. “Mom, we’ve all seen it a hundred times. You need to get some rest to knock out this bug. The kids’ party is tomorrow. You don’t want to miss that.”

  They get her to agree, though still not to see a doctor, and as soon as she leaves the room, Emily announces she is driving into town to grab some things from her apartment.

  “Take Charlie with you,” Carter suggests, to my surprise. Jonesy has never been stupid. Why would he trust a guy like me with his sister?

  “I’m sure Charlie has better things to do,” she says, her cheeks pinkening.

  I don’t have anything better to do, but that doesn’t explain why words are coming out of my mouth before I decide to say them. “I’d love to see the Christmas lights in town again.”

  Smooth.

  She picks at likely nonexistent lint on her shirt. “You saw them the other night.”

  “But I want to see them again.”

  “Good, it’s settled,” Carter says. “Charlie, that hat you wanted to borrow is in my room. You can come grab it and go.”

  Jones is not even trying to be subtle. I no more want to borrow his hat than he wants to loan it to me. He is going to have the big brother talk with me before I leave with his sister. Which is good. But then I remember the beautiful babies Jones wants to saddle me with and start second guessing the
drive to town.

  Once inside Carter’s room, Carter grabs a hat off the desk and shoves it into my chest. “You’re one of the best guys I know, but you fuck with my sister and no one will find your body. Just so we are clear.”

  I couldn’t have heard him right. “What the fuck, man? You’re the one pushing me to go with her. It was your idea.”

  Carter folds his arms across his chest, his stance deceptively relaxed, but likely ready to spring into action. “You could be good for her. She could be good for you. But if you hurt her feelings like—”

  “Do not say that weasel’s name if you are about to put me in the same line-up.”

  “She told you about him?”

  “Yeah. She told me.”

  The muscle in Carter’s jaw ticks. “She let him into her head, man. It kills me that she hasn’t been able to get him all the way out yet. I just don’t want to push her from the frying pan into the fire. You have my permission to date her—”

  “Dude, she would kick your ass if she heard you say that, and I’m tempted to do it for her. She doesn’t need permission from you or anyone else—”

  Carter narrows his eyes. “Damn it, you know what I mean. Just don’t hurt her.”

  “I’m not staying, Jonesy. There’s no reason for me to start something I can’t finish.”

  “You could stay.”

  “And do what? There’s nothing for me here.”

  Carter gets quiet. “You don’t have to start something. Just...just make her feel good about herself again. Give her some attention, you know? She needs to feel pretty and wanted again.”

  She doesn’t need that from a guy, she needs that from herself. But if Carter doesn’t get that, it isn’t up to me to explain it to him. “Permission to be excused?”

  Carter shakes his head. “Don’t forget to wear the damn hat.”

  Tagged: Chapter Nine

  Emily

  I PRESS MYSELF AGAINST the back of my bedroom door, trying to get my breath into my locked lungs.

  Give her some attention, you know? She needs to feel pretty and wanted again.

  Is it possible to die of utter mortification? My brother feels he needs to coax his friend into giving me attention? The least he could have done was close the door. I was about to enter the room when I overheard them.

  Pull yourself together, Emily. I inhale slowly until I get my lungs working properly again. I just have to power through this night. He can never know I heard that conversation. Never. I’ve been through worse humiliation and lived to tell.

  I just don’t want to do it again. God. Am I really so pathetic that my lot in life is just...shame?

  A knock on the door jars me and I squeak.

  “You ready to go, mistletoe?”

  Damn him. My nickname? Now? Really?

  One more breath. In. Out. I open the door, schooling my face into a bland expression.

  “Yep.”

  I brush past him, down the stairs, to the front door, ignoring Carter’s goodbye.

  I start my car and avoid the temptation to fill the awkward silence after he gets in and buckles up.

  Being a good hostess, I turn on the radio, and strains of Alvin and the Chipmunks fill the car. Maybe not a great hostess because I leave the station on, hiding my own wincing and tapping my fingers on the wheel as if I’m enjoying the song.

  More awkward silence.

  “Did you like high school?” Charlie asks as we pass the schools.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you in any sports?”

  “No.”

  The next song comes on. God, another one? Are they doing a chipmunk marathon?

  I turn down a residential street that likes to do the light show up big, each house competing with the others on the block—each year getting a little nuttier.

  “I bet you were a good student.”

  I shrug.

  “You’re chatty tonight.”

  Breathe. In. Out. “I didn’t invite you, Charlie. You wanted to see the lights, but I didn’t promise conversation.”

  Charlie squares his jaw and twists his head slowly. “Are you mad at me for something? You’ve been short with me for the last couple of days. And all these one-word answers are getting a little old.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not entertaining enough for you.”

  He holds his hands up in a “stop” position. Oh good. That is universally as acceptable as trying to calm a person by telling them to calm down. “I don’t expect you to entertain me. I just thought...never mind. I was wrong.”

  We don’t speak again until we get to my apartment over the pub downtown. I jerk the car into park. “I’ll be right out.”

  “Oh, no. I want to see your place.”

  “I don’t think—” But he is already out of the car, waiting at the entrance.

  I don’t have to go through the bar, so I lead him up the stairs through my separate entrance, conscious that his eyes could be on my ass as I go up. But probably not. My boxy jacket covers my butt anyway.

  Maybe Sheila will be home. Sheila is good for distractions. I enjoy living across the hall from her because there is always something crazy about to happen in Sheila’s world. Living vicariously is as close to crazy as I want to get—but it is still entertaining.

  Once inside my apartment, I tell Charlie to stay in the living room while I get what I need from my bedroom. Which is nothing. I only said I wanted to go home so I could take a break in my quiet space surrounded by my own things.

  Nervous sweat breaks out over my body, so I throw off my coat and pick out a new shirt. Another turtleneck. I stare at it. Hating it.

  My wardrobe is easy and modest. Neutral colors. Classic fabrics.

  Boring.

  I shop in the parts of the store even my mother refused to enter. I could trade clothes with my grandmother if I wanted to. I guess part of me thinks if I dress the way I imagine a preacher’s wife to dress, I would what...get Alan back? No. I have zero interest in getting him back. So why am I trying to be the girl he’d wanted me to be?

  Now is not the time to analyze my wardrobe. I need to get Sergeant Hottie out of my apartment. I’m not going to get my break tonight. Not going to sip a cup of tea from my favorite Wedgewood and curl up with my chenille throw. Is it too much to ask for an hour to decompress? I grab a duffel bag and stuff it with some random things so I look legit. Like I’d needed to come home. I am ridiculous.

  “I think your apartment is amazing.” His voice makes me jump. He has got to stop sneaking up on me.

  I whirl around, clutching the duffel to my chest. “Amazing is kind of a strong word. It’s a one-bedroom above a bar.”

  He steps into my bedroom. Uninvited.

  “It feels like you. It’s warm and I don’t know...cozy, I guess.”

  I snort. He thinks I am cozy. Basically, I’m a twenty-five-year-old Angela Lansbury.

  Fine. Maybe I am. And before he showed up, that was the way I liked it. Nothing wrong with Mrs. Potts.

  “What the hell is your problem?” Charlie crosses his impressive arms over his barrel chest. Stop noticing his muscles. He is all big and blocking the doorway and why couldn’t he just go away so I can find my center again?

  “I don’t have a problem. Except for the big man in my bedroom swearing at me. I could do without that.”

  He takes the duffel from my arms. “Don’t even pretend you’re intimidated by me. I want to know what changed. Something happened the day we built the bikes.”

  I pull at my sleeves so they cover my hands. “Nothing happened. I’m giving you an out. Why won’t you take it?”

  The skin above his nose gathers in tight folds. Nice. Now there is a big man frowning in my doorway. Well, too bad.

  “I don’t understand why you think I want an out. I thought we were friends.”

  I thought so too. That’s why I pulled back after the bike building—because I didn’t want to use him to get over my insecurities. It’s laughable now, me thinking I was d
oing him some kind of favor. He didn’t even want to be with me.

  I try to pull my bag out of his hands, but he doesn’t let go. “I don’t want to be the reason you withdraw from everyone around you,” he said. “Ever since I told you that you scare me, you’ve gone into your shell like a damned turtle.”

  I tug harder on the bag. Turtle? “How long has my brother been convincing you to be nice to me? Is that the reason you came to Maple Grove in the first place? His poor little wounded sister needs a man to show her some attention? Just be nice to her, Charlie...throw her a compliment here and there. How far does he want you to go? You really had me going there, the night you told me Carter wouldn’t want you touching his little sister.” I let go of the bag when it is clear he won’t.

  I’m egging him on—to what end I don’t know. But damn it, I want a reaction. Anger and embarrassment swill together in my stomach like a batch of my cousin’s moonshine. Potent. Wicked. Volatile.

  But instead of sparking a similar rage in Charlie, he drops my bag on the floor. Calmly. Grr. Why is he so calm?

  Without raising his voice, he asks, “Is that what you think? That he had to convince me to be nice to you?” His voice is measured. Too measured. That’s how I know he isn’t unaffected by the toxic brew inside me that seems to spill out into the room. He feels it too, but Charlie is not the guy who goes red hot with rage. No, he goes ice cold. “I guess you overheard him talking tonight?”

  “I guess I did.”

  “This makes a little more sense then.” He takes a step toward me. Crowding me. “Don’t back down from me.”

  I jut my chin out. “I don’t intend to.”

  “Good.”

  I never expressed anger at Alan. Not to anyone. I never felt I had a right to it. Not after what I did. But I feel angry now. Angry that I don’t know how to handle a man who shows interest in me. Angry that I want to go back to being a little mouse. Angry that I’m not brave enough to do anything else. Angry that I can’t trust that I haven’t mistaken interest for pity.