Come On Closer (6 page)

He'd chase her a lot farther than that, if he thought she might let him catch her in the end. But for now, he'd start with the frozen foods section and see where they ended up.

It was time for her to let him butt his way back into her life, and there was no time like the present to make that happen.

•   •   •

Damn it damn it damn it damn it . . .

Larkin stared at the pints of Ben & Jerry's without really seeing them. She'd briefly considered ditching her cart and bolting for the car, but she needed to retain some shred of dignity. He'd already caught her mentally sticking pins in the gorgeous brunette he'd been talking to, the one she was pretty sure was Cici Ferris. There was no reason to look like even more of an idiot than she already did.

You told him you weren't interested. He accepted it. Well, mostly. Why do you even care who he talks to?

She wished she had a good answer for herself. One that wasn't necessarily the truth, but truthy enough to be acceptable. She needed to move on, which was not even close to happening. But she'd never actually had to see him with another woman, and she didn't just not like it—she loathed it. Enough that flames might actually be shooting out of the side of her face. Enough
that, given the opportunity, she might just launch Cici Ferris into the sun and—

“Get the Americone Dream. It's awesome.”

Larkin stiffened, then closed her eyes. He'd found her in record time, just like she'd known he would. And here were her knees threatening to give out on her, also just like she'd known they would, the instant his deep voice rippled up her spine. One kiss—not even a proper kiss, if she wanted to get technical about it, because she was a grown woman and she didn't think kisses minus tongue should really count—and everything was messed up.

Life had been so much easier when she hadn't known him well enough to like him, and when he'd been around enough that she hadn't had time to miss him. Which she did.

Larkin turned her head to answer him, but something in her brain short-circuited when she found him so close, his blue eyes completely focused on her. He waited. She tried to form words into a sentence. His brows lifted. She stared at his mouth for too long. Finally, she managed something.

“Ice cream?”

He looked around. “Ah, yeah. Isn't that the general idea in this part of the store?”

She blinked rapidly. “Yeah. Yes. Sorry. I'm a little tired. Long day.”

“You and me both,” he replied. When she didn't say anything, he slowly reached around her, opened the freezer door, and handed her a pint of the ice cream he'd recommended. “Seriously. This is my go-to ice cream. If you're not sure, always go with this one.”

Larkin accepted it from him with a soft, breathy laugh. “Oh. Thanks. I'll give it a try.”

Could I possibly be any more lame right now? I have been a complete dork in front of this man on numerous occasions. And I didn't care. Remember—nothing's changed.

It was a nice lie to tell herself, anyway. It did work to bolster her spirits a little. She drew in a breath, forced herself to meet his gaze head-on, and tried out the mantra she'd been working on all weekend:
It's only Shane, it's only Shane, it's only Shane. . . .

“You, um, haven't been into the shop this week,” she said, then silently cursed herself. Way to let on that she'd noticed, and that it had bothered her. She hadn't realized how used to him being underfoot she was until he'd decided not to be. She even had a sad little box of cupcakes made up for him in the kitchen, just in case. Not that she would be telling him that—ever.

As relaxed as he seemed, the simple pleasure in Shane's eyes threatened to make her knees go melty again before she had a chance to gird herself against his appeal.

“Busy week, like you said,” he replied. “Besides . . .” He hesitated, then plowed forward. “After last Saturday, I wasn't sure it was okay if I stopped by.”

That answered her question about whether or not he'd bring it up. Not that it had been much of a question—this was Shane. Of course he'd bring it up. Larkin hadn't envisioned having this conversation in the grocery store, but she was so tired of obsessing about it that it was still kind of a relief to get it out in the open. Maybe if they cleared the air she could see him without feeling this out of sorts.

It would also be cool to see him with other women without the whole blinding-rage thing. That was a new twist on an already unfortunate fixation.

“Of course it's okay. We're not selling nearly as many treats as usual. I think you account for like twenty percent of my business.” Larkin had hoped to tease him out of this weird tension between them and reset things to something like normal. Instead, Shane just looked disgruntled.

“I don't eat
that
much. Usually.”

I think I just accidentally called him fat. Oh God. Perfect.

Flustered, she cast around for an appropriate subject change. “I know. I just, um . . . My ice cream is going to melt,” she said, then laughed. It sounded nervous, Larkin thought, dismayed. It certainly didn't sound like her. None of this felt like her, either. She was good with people. Well, up until they decided to kiss her, apparently.

“It'll freeze back up once you get it outside,” Shane said. He looked at her, considering her in a way that made her feel uncomfortably exposed. This was what she thought of as his “lawyer look,” sharp and incisive, giving away nothing. Larkin wished, not for the first time, that she could crawl inside his head to figure out what went on in there. Usually, she suspected it was pretty basic guy stuff: food, sarcasm, random flirting, more food, sex, television, more sex. Sometimes, though, like now, she got the sense that his inner workings were a lot more complicated than he tended to let on. It was, if she was being honest, one of the things that fascinated her about him.

Naturally, whatever he saw, he kept to himself. “You
ready for more snow this weekend?” Shane asked, changing the subject. “I'm not sure those big furry designer boots are made for shoveling the driveway.”

Larkin pressed her lips together and exhaled loudly through her nose. Shane might be quietly complicated, but he seemed pretty comfortable with his default setting, which was anything but. “Ha-ha, funny. I've been here a few years now. I think I can handle it.” The boots were also knockoffs from the local Target, but there was no way she'd be sharing that with him. The thought of buying clothing at a superstore would probably give him a stroke. Snow was still a novelty for her—she thought it might always be—but she wasn't going to admit that, either. She'd weathered winters here just fine, California girl or not. “What about you?” she asked, unable to shake the cozy scene between Cici and him she'd stumbled into. “Big plans?”

He shrugged. “No. Maybe trying to find someone to get snowed in with so I don't die of boredom. Otherwise Saturday's looking like a complete bust.”

Larkin's jaw clenched. Maybe this was why he and Cici had been laughing like they'd just shared some kind of secret. Maybe they'd been making plans.
No, that's stupid. But maybe it isn't. But maybe it
is
!
Cue internal screaming.

It was an unpleasant reminder that romantic relationships, at least the ones she tended to get herself into, took up obscene amounts of emotional bandwidth that could be used for so many better things. She felt the sudden, overwhelming need to go home, crank the music, and hash out her emotions in a one-woman dance extravaganza, probably involving breaks for messy handfuls of potato chips. Screw clearing the air.
It was time to go before she had some kind of nervous breakdown in the frozen treats section.

“Well, good luck with that,” she said with forced brightness. “You know what? I changed my mind. I don't want any ice cream.” Larkin shoved the container back in the freezer and let the door shut with a loud
smack
. “I'm just going to grab some chips and get home. Good luck with your whole plan . . . thing. I'll see you.” She gave him a smile that probably looked scary, then walked away as quickly as she could without running.

Breathe. Peaceful breathing. Four in, hold for eight, four out . . .

“Hey, wait up. Did I say something?”

Why did his legs have to be even longer than hers? He'd caught up in seconds. The fact that he looked so clueless was even more frustrating. Or maybe it was just the way his cologne, light and subtle, managed to wrap itself around her, making it impossible to think straight.

“No, why would you think that?” she asked. If he wanted to keep talking, he could follow her to the junk food aisle. The way she was feeling, she'd be clearing out a whole shelf.

“This may be hard for you to believe, but I'm pretty good at identifying when people are pissed off at me.”

That forced a smile out of her. She couldn't help it. “No way,” she said.

“Way. It's a gift.” He watched her grab a bag of onion crunchies and a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips. “You're not going to eat those together, are you?”

“Oh hell yes.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Huh. I thought you were a sugar junkie.”

“No, I just like things that are bad for me in general.” She realized a split second after the words left her mouth that the statement could be applied to Shane as well, and that he knew it. They stared at each other awkwardly for a few long seconds, then began speaking at the same time.

“Look, Larkin, if this is still about Saturday, I wasn't trying to make you feel—”

“Shane, you don't need to feel weird about going out with somebody else. I told you I'm not—”

“Wait, what?” He stopped midsentence, and Larkin's eyes widened. Had she just said that? She'd said that. Awesome.

“Um. I just, ah . . .” She could see immediately that she'd been wrong, so very, very, embarrassingly wrong about that nature of Cici's and his little interlude of intimate laughter. As comprehension dawned on Shane's face, she wished very hard for the ability to sink through floors.

Sadly, as ever, no superpower was forthcoming. Shane cocked his head, as though studying her from another angle might provide him with some new insight, and looked torn between laughter and complete confusion.

“You think I'm seeing . . .” One of his eyebrows arched so high she thought it might vanish into his hair. “Larkin. Whatever you might have heard, Cici Ferris and I are not, never were, and never will be a thing. That's just . . . no.” She did feel better for a brief moment until he frowned and his expression went from startled to annoyed. It was hard to blame him. She'd been annoying herself all week. Without shifting her gaze, she reached behind her and slid another bag
of onion crunchies into her cart. Maybe that would help. “You really think I'd move that quickly from . . . No, don't answer that. Of course you do. Everybody tends to think the worst about me and relationships. Why should you be any different?”

His jaw flexed, and he stared at the floor for a few long moments before lifting his gaze back to hers. The oceanic blue of his eyes was as wintry as she'd ever seen it. Guilt bloomed deep in her chest. This was
not
how this was supposed to go. She was a jerk magnet. Her romantic history was littered with bad boys of every possible stripe—tattooed musicians, preppy young CEOs, hipsters with an edge—and the only guilt she'd ever felt was not having left them sooner. Each guy in turn had promised to fill her up and then left her empty, no matter how sure she was that
this
one was different. History—not to mention local gossip—would indicate that Shane was no different from the men who populated her past. So why did hurting him hurt her, too? Confused by her reaction, Larkin tried to soothe his feelings in order to soothe her own.

“That's not what I . . . I mean, Saturday was just kind of a weird . . . thing,” she stammered. “It's not like I thought it meant you were all about . . . me.”

She knew she wasn't making it any better.

Shane shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet, reminding her for a brief, oddly sweet instant of an overgrown teenager. “Is it really that hard to believe I'm interested in you, Larkin?
Just
you?”

She wasn't often at a loss for words, but she couldn't seem to find a way to answer him. The easy answer was “yes,” of course. But that was
too
easy. The truth was, it wasn't a question she'd given any thought to
before this week, and now that she was being forced to, all Larkin had realized was that she didn't know him well enough to say.

“I don't know.” It was an honest answer, at least. Even if it wasn't what he was looking for.

“Would it make a difference if you did?” he asked.

She chewed the inside of her cheek, an old habit that surfaced only when she was incredibly nervous.

“I don't know,” she repeated, her voice softer. The way he looked at her, like she was the exact thing he wanted, the only thing, was intoxicating . . . and dangerous. He could be sweet. She'd seen it. But her friends' warnings about him were based on more than just speculation. She knew damn well that always seeing the best in people was her Achilles' heel. A lot of times, a person's good qualities didn't outweigh the bad ones, no matter what she talked herself into.

A muscle twitched at the corner of Shane's eye before he looked away. “This is my cue to take the hint, I think. I need to get home. Take it easy, Larkin. And don't eat all that junk at once.”

She laughed, but it sounded unnatural to her. “I'll be fine. I can eat anything.”

A ghost of a smile he clearly had to work at appeared and vanished on his lips so quickly that Larkin nearly missed it. “See you around.” Then he was leaving, his long legs carrying him away from her. Larkin stared at his back—his big, broad, gorgeous back—and discovered that she didn't need to eat the stuff she had in her cart to be sick to her stomach.