Page 22 of Just Ten Seconds

“It’s okay. It’s not my style either, but it’s where the money is. My real passion is taking older houses and tearing them down to the bare bones to make something new and beautiful. I’m working on one now. A house on Greenwood Lake. The original stonework is unlike anything you’ll see on these newer homes, and it has this wood-burning stove that can heat the whole house. I’m expanding on it, giving it a new second story with a balcony that has the most magnificent view of the treetops. In the fall with the changing leaf colors and the lake … it’s so beautiful.”

“That sounds amazing.”

“I’ll bring you by the project if you’d like.”

My stomach does a flip. I’m indecisive on if it’s intrigued by the notion of him wanting to see me again or if I’m absolutely frightened by it. “I’d like to see a house in the stages of remodel. I’ve never seen part of the process before. On TV, you get the condensed version.”

“It’s definitely more intense than what you get on HGTV, but I love it. I have a hard time handing the keys over to the owner. It’s like my own piece of art, which I cultivated and turned into this beautiful home, is now going into a gallery for all to see. Sometimes, I walk around and picture where I’d place the furniture and imagine the paintings I’d hang.” He lowers his head and peeks up at me through those dark lashes. “And there I go again. Not earning too many cool points tonight. Please tell me something mildly embarrassing about yourself.”

I drum my fingers along the table and think. “I pull back the shower curtain to make sure a serial killer isn’t on the other side.”

“Everyone does that,” he says, and I give him an accusing look that makes him lift his hands to his chest. “I need something worse.”

Hmm. “I have conversations in the shower.”

He raises a brow in interest.

I’m pretty sure he’s reading into my shower comment, so I lightly kick him under the table and continue, “Like, I’ll sit there and contemplate all of these conversations I would have with people if I actually had the balls to say it.”

He gives a contemplative look. “I do that in my truck. Mostly with this doctor in the city who I want to tell to go to hell. You’re not giving me anything unique.”

“What can I say? I’m perfect,” I say with irony.

“You are,” he states.

My heart skips a beat. I’m sure he didn’t mean I’m perfect, perfect, but it’s still nice to hear.

“Okay, fine. I have one.” I scrunch my eyes together and place my hands on my mug as if I need the support to blurt out, “I cry whenever I hear Frank Sinatra sing.”

He raises a brow. “You cry?”

“Bawl. Like a baby. I don’t know why. It’s like there’s some electrical charge in my brain. Maybe it’s connected to a childhood memory I’m suppressing. It started when I was really little, and still, to this day, if I hear Ol’ Blue Eyes croon, I weep.”

One of his arms is up and resting against the back of the booth, and the other is casually stretched out across the table, fondling his mug. He’s looking at me. Really looking at me, like he’s just been awakened from a decades-long fog that is now lifted.

“What?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.

“You’re funny.”

“Funny ha-ha or funny—”

“Surprising. It’s a compliment.”

“Oh.” I bite my lip as the waitress comes over with the check.

I slam my hand on the table, grabbing it before Dean does, but he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and throws a twenty on the table anyway.

“My treat, remember? A thank-you for your kindness.”

I roll my eyes and drink my last drop of coffee. “Kindness repaid.”

Opening my bag, I see my cell phone lighting up with the missed call from Jackie. She doesn’t leave a voice mail or a text, so it’s nothing important.

“I’ll walk you to your car.” He slides out of the booth as I place my phone in my bag.

He holds an arm out for me as I rise and places his hand on my back as we walk out of the café. I grab two peppermints from the candy dish by the register. Once we’re outside, I give him one, and we make our way toward the park.

We’re quiet, but this time, it’s a relaxed silence, the kind you can relish with someone you are comfortable with. I grab his hand when it’s time to climb over the log lying in the path and hold it a few seconds longer than I should as his palm grips my waist in a protective manner.