He wore dark pants and shoes, his leather coat zipped to his chin. Her day had been packed with errands, so she still wore her jeans and soft, cream-colored sweater from earlier. If she’d greeted him wearing her usual—leggings and slouchy sweatshirt, minus the bra—he wouldn’t have been the only one of them embarrassed.
“My teakettle whistled and then I spotted you down here. You look like you could use a warm drink.”
“Do I?” He palmed his neck and glanced behind him. Maybe she’d misread this situation after all.
“Unless you’re waiting for someone?”
She’d seen him in town with a waifish blonde woman a handful of times. Claire, Hayden had gleaned. Tate’s girlfriend and very recently, fiancée. The other woman seemed proper and rigid, and Hayden’s first thought was that she was an odd match for the always bright and cheery Tate...though he wasn’t bright or cheery at the moment.
“No. I was at the Pony,” he said of the restaurant up the hill from here. “The rain caught me.”
“I’d offer to drive you home, but I don’t have a car.” One of the luxuries she’d given up to afford to move to Spright Island, but the sacrifice had been worth it. Peace had been worth it.
Every shop or store in the community could be reached on foot if she planned ahead, and she had a few friends in the area or could call a car service if she needed to venture farther.
“But I do have tea.” She opened the door wider.
“Of course. Thank you.” He stepped into the studio, his shoes squishing on her welcome mat. “Sorry about this.”
“No worries.” She locked the door behind him and grabbed a towel from a nearby cabinet. “Clean, fluffy towel? They’re for my hot yoga classes.”
He accepted with a nod and sopped the water from his hair.
“Tea’s in my apartment.” She gestured to the open doorway leading upstairs. “Don’t worry about wet shoes. I’m not that formal.”
Tate followed her upstairs and inside her blessedly spotless apartment. She’d cleaned yesterday. She was fairly tidy, but some weeks got the best of her and she didn’t get around to vacuuming or changing her sheets.
By the time he was in the center of her living room and she was shutting the door to the staircase behind her, she was questioning her invitation.
A man in her apartment shrank it down until it felt like she lived in a cereal box—and this man in particular infused the immediate space with a sizzling attraction she’d felt since he first shook her hand.
Hayden Green, he’d said. You have the perfect last name for this community.
Now, he pegged her with a look that could only be described as vulnerable, as if something was really, really off. She wanted nothing more than to cross the room and scoop him into her arms. But she couldn’t do that. He had a fiancée. And she wasn’t looking for a romantic relationship.
No matter how hot he was.
“Tea,” she reminded herself and then stepped around him to walk to the kitchen.
Tate slipped out of his leather jacket and hung it on an honest-to-goodness coatrack in between the door and the television. His shirt beneath was dry, thank goodness, and his pants were in the process of drying, but he kicked off his shoes rather than track puddles through Hayden’s apartment.
Since he’d personally approved the design of every structure in SWC, he knew this building. He’d expected her place to be both modern and cozy, but she’d added her own sense of unique style. Much like Hayden herself, her apartment was laid-back with a Zen feel. From the live potted plants near the window to the black-and-white woven rug on the floor. A camel-brown sofa stood next to a coffee table, its surface cluttered with books. Oversize deep gold throw pillows were stacked on the floor for sitting, a journal and a pen resting on top of one of them.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.” He was still drying his hair with the towel when he leaned forward to study the photos on the mantel above a gas fireplace. He’d expected family photos, maybe one of a boyfriend, or a niece or nephew. Instead the frames held quotes. One of them was the silhouette of a woman in a yoga pose with wording underneath that read, I bend so I don’t break, and the other a plain black background with white lettering: If you stumble, make it part of the dance.
“Do you have a tea preference?” she called from the kitchen.
“Not really.”
He didn’t drink tea, though he supposed he should, since he’d recently learned he was from fucking London.
“I have green, peppermint and chai. Green has caffeine, so let’s not go there.” She peeked at him before tucking the packet back into the drawer like she’d intuited a pending breakdown.
Great. Nothing like an emasculating bout of anxiety to finish up his day.
“Peppermint would be good if you were nauseous or ate too much, and chai will warm you up.” She narrowed her eyes, assessing him anew. “Chai.”
“Chai’s fine. Thanks again.”
She set about making his tea and he watched her, the fluid way she moved as she hummed to herself in the small kitchen. Stepping into Hayden’s apartment was a lot like stepping into a therapist’s office, only not as stuffy. As if being in her space tempted him to open up. Whether it was the rich, earthy colors or the offer of a soothing, hot drink he didn’t know. Maybe both.
He was surprised she’d invited him in, considering she’d found him standing in a downpour staring blankly at the window.
Probably he should get around to addressing that.
She set the mugs on the coffee table, and he moved to the sofa, debating whether or not to sit.
“You’re dry enough,” she said, reading his mind. She swiped the towel and disappeared into the bedroom before coming back out. Her walk was as confident as they came, with an elegance reminding him of Claire.
Claire. Her last words to him two weeks ago kept him awake at night, along with the other melee of crap bouncing around in his head.
I can’t handle this right now, Tate. I have a job. A life. Let’s have a cooling-off period. I’m sure you’d like some time alone.
He felt alone, more alone than ever now that the holidays were coming up. His adoptive parents were fretting, though he tried to reassure them. Nothing would reassure his mother, he knew. Guilt was a carnivorous beast.
Hayden lit a candle on a nearby shelf, and he took back his earlier comparison to Claire. Hayden was completely different. From her dark hair to her curvy dancer’s body.
Pointing to the quote on the mantel, he said, “I bet you’ve never stumbled a day in your life.”
