Talkin' the Talk, page 18
Now that got his interest. He retreated to the living room, still close enough to hear Sophie’s muffled voice, but far enough away that he wouldn’t appear intrusive.
“ . . . Okay. He’s not here, and from what I know, he left to see you when he was supposed to. I’ll let you know . . . Yeah, okay. Love you. Bye now.” There was the sound of something clattering in a bucket, followed by a low, frustrated noise. “What are you going to do now, Sophie? How are you going to tell her? This is just so stupid. Idiot!” There was the sound of footsteps and then Sophie appeared, stomping through the living room on the way to the front door with her bucket in hand.
Ian drank in the sight of her. She was wearing denim cutoffs that were nearly covered by a lemon-yellow long-sleeve shirt. Her hair was piled up on her head in a wispy topknot, and her skin was sun-kissed from the gold light coming through the window. He saw bare feet, dimpled knees . . . and then a frown that didn’t suit her at all. He stepped forward.
“Sophie.”
She let out a piercing scream, and, before he knew it, he experienced a sharp pain on his forehead and the feel of something wet and spongy slapping against his cheek. He staggered backwards. As he wiped soapy water out of his stinging eyes, he registered her expression of combined anger and fear before a knee came up hard between his legs.
He buckled, hitting the floor and tasting metal as white-hot agony radiated from his balls. Sophie’s voice, frantic now, was an echo at the end of a long tunnel of pain.
“Ian? Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I didn’t mean to do that. I mean, I wanted to do it, but I didn’t mean to do it right now. You scared me . . . Oh shit. Why didn’t you call out to let me know you were here? You idiot! You’re lucky I don’t carry a gun, because you’d be dead right now! And why are you here so early? Ian? Please say something. I’m so sorry. You deserved the bucket and the sponge, but I seriously didn’t mean to knee you like that. Or at least not that hard.
Ian gasped in a breath, and then another one once the pain had receded to a tolerable level. He opened his eyes to see Sophie kneeling above him, looking like she was about to cry.
He coughed, feeling the movement acutely, still not braving any further motion. It was a good thing his father and uncles couldn’t see him now. Felled by a woman half his size. He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s one way to tell me how you feel.”
Sophie let out a choked laugh, eyes shiny with tears. “Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. Can I help you sit up?”
Ian pushed himself up into a seated position, resting his back against the sofa. “I think I’m quite capable. That’s the first time I’ve been hit by a bucket.”
“And a sponge. You’re going to bruise. And it looks like you’re already bruised. What happened? Not that I should care.”
Ian looked down to find that the effort he’d made in dressing had been wasted, his white Armani shirt now liberally splattered with disinfectant-tinged water. With any luck, his dry cleaner would know what to do about it, because he sure as hell didn’t.
“Got into a minor altercation while in the UK. It’s nothing. Especially compared to what you just managed to do to me. Although I probably deserved it, given how I treated you before I left.”
Sophie looked away. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry, Sophie.” The words came out gruffer than he would have liked. Not surprising given the hit he’d just taken. “I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry.”
“Yeah?” She stood up and collected the bucket and sponge. “This is how it is, Ian. You’re a guy who works with words every day, right?”
“Yes.” Ian watched as Sophie began swiftly sponging up the puddle of water on the floorboards. Her movements were stilted, and there was none of the joie de vivre from before. The thought that he was the one responsible for the change was untenable.
“You know about synonyms?” She looked him straight in the eye, her expression heartbreakingly sad. “Can you name me one positive synonym for a woman who talks a lot? One word.” She reached into the back pocket of her shorts and brought out her phone.
Ian would have had to be foolish not to see which way the wind was blowing. He searched his memory, but Sophie’s voice cut through his thought process.
“How about I give you some help?” She looked down at the screen, typing something before reading out loud. “Big-mouthed, chattering, loud-mouthed, loose-lipped, gabby, mouthy, smart-mouthed.” She shoved her phone back in her pocket. “I don’t really need to have this. I can tell you the ones I get all the time. Chatterbox, motormouth, loud and . . . prattling? Wasn’t that one you used?”
“Sophie.” Ian contemplated standing up, but didn’t want her to think he was using their height difference to intimidate her into being quiet.
She seemed to deflate, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes sad. “I’ve talked a lot ever since I was a kid, and the more nervous or upset I am, the more I talk. I know I do it. People . . . people seem to think that I can’t hear the words coming out of my own mouth, that I can’t see them looking at me like I’m an idiot. I’m not. I’m a professional woman with a degree who was a damn good accountant and who is good at managing these cabins. I have friends and family who love me. I’m smart. I know I’m intelligent. I just put my foot in my mouth sometimes. And the reason I do that, why I did it with you . . . the stupid reason—” Her bottom lip quivered in a way that made Ian’s heart feel like it was going to crack through his ribs. “The stupid reason is that I wanted you to like me. I thought you liked me.”
Ignoring the sharp twinge in his groin, Ian got to his feet with the intent of pulling her against him and making the hurt go away. “I’m sorry, Sophie.”
She took a quick step back, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist.
“Yeah? Well I’m really sorry, too. Contrary to what you might think, I don’t sleep around, and although I had sex with you just after meeting you, I was kind of hoping it’d be a mutually . . . I don’t know, at least a mutually kind thing.” She swallowed. “So, anyway, I’ve got to go. I’ve stocked your fridge and tidied. You’re paid up for another week, so I’ll be coming around to clean like before, but I’ll call before I get here so we don’t have to cross paths again. Bye.”
If Ian had felt like shit before, it was nothing on how he felt now.
“Sophie, I meant it. I’m sorry. I want to make it up to you.”
She swiped her hand over her eyes, looking anywhere but at him. “Why? It’s not as if you’re going to be here much longer. I’m surprised you even came back.”
“Contrary to the impression I know I gave before I left, I like you. I enjoy your company. I find you extremely attractive. What I said to you . . . it wasn’t meant for you. I was taking something going on in my life out on you, and I had no right to do that.” The words sounded clumsy to Ian’s ears. “And I would like to spend the remainder of my time here behaving the way I should have in the first place, treating you the way I should have. In short, I’d like you to forgive me enough for me to show you I care.”
He forced himself to say no more as the clock on the wall ticked away. He would have given anything in that moment to have the talkative Sophie back, not this woman who wouldn’t even look at him.
“How?” she asked finally. “You’ve done a damn fine job at breaking whatever it was we had. How are you going to put that back together? When I saw you last, you told me I was an idiot for trusting you, and you were right, at least in that. I shouldn’t have trusted you in the first place, and things are complicated now. You have no idea how complicated.”
Ian cleared his throat. “I thought I would give you a chance to make me feel inadequate.”
Sophie gave him a look of disbelief. “How?”
He thought quickly, trusting his gut. “I don’t know how to cook.”
“And?”
Ian jammed his hands into the damp pockets of his trousers. “I’m offering to cook you dinner. Tonight. I have it on good authority that you’re an excellent cook—”
“I’m alright.” Sophie looked confused, before narrowing her eyes. “Have you been talking to Hank? Because if you have—”
“Your brother? When would I have had a chance?”
“Good point.” The ticking clock filled the silence again until Ian felt like he was going to peel out of his own skin.
Finally, she spoke. “If I say yes, it doesn’t mean I want to have sex with you again. Not after what happened. It would just be dinner. And only because . . . because I’d prefer to have a nice memory of you rather than a horrible one. I’ve got enough going on right now.”
Ian sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity that had given Sean Walker his wonderful mother. Ian had disregarded Mary Walker’s advice about cooking something for Sophie when she’d given it, but now he realized the woman was a genius. “Of course. I wouldn’t expect it any other way.”
“Okay.” Sophie nodded, her expression still troubled. “What time? I’ve got a big day today.”
“What time works for you?”
Sophie bit her lip. “It would have to be later. Eight?”
“Done.”
“Alright. I—ah . . . Alright.” Her expression clearly said she thought she was making a mistake. “I have to go. I’ve got three other cabins to tidy, and there are a lot of things to do for Dad’s wedding. And I’ve got to work out what to do about Candy . . . Yeah. I’ll see you later.”
“You’ll have to wait until I move my car.”
“Okay.”
Before Ian knew it he was watching Sophie’s tires kick up dust as she sped away.
He felt his tension lessen, at least a fraction. He’d see Sophie tonight. They’d be able to talk. He’d make every effort to be charming, and if he was lucky, if he put in enough effort, she might begin to forgive him.
There was only one major problem.
He had no idea how to cook.
32
Ian had faced down rabid politicians, movie stars and CEOs during his time as editor-in-chief of The London Voice, and he’d fought too many illegal bare-knuckle boxing matches to count. He’d even withstood his previous employer’s efforts to massacre his reputation. Right now, however, none of those felt as important as his current project.
It was imperative that this evening went well.
He glared at the leg of lamb he’d just removed from the oven. It was dried-out and charred on top, but the inside was too pink to be even called rare. He looked at the directions Sean’s mother had emailed him.
“Moderate oven. What the hell does a ‘moderate oven’ mean if not halfway on the damn dial?” He scowled at the dial in question, which by all rights should have melted from the force of his exasperation. “A few degrees shouldn’t have made a bloody difference.” He’d googled “moderate,” but he’d underestimated just how long the damn thing would take to cook and had been forced to turn up the temperature to make the roasting process happen quicker. It hadn’t.
Ian abandoned the lamb for a moment and inspected the vegetables roasting on the oven’s top shelf. Half of them were crisp on the bottom—too crisp—but the potatoes were alright. Maybe he’d be able to rescue those.
He forked one out, tried it, burnt his mouth and decided that the entire endeavor was a fool’s game.
He looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. He had fifty minutes at best to come up with a solution. It wasn’t enough.
He paced the kitchen until a magnet on the fridge caught his eye. Delicious. He knew the restaurant was only ten minutes away. Surely if he called and pleaded his case they’d understand. At least he hoped so.
He had a lady to please.
* * *
Sophie was running early. She drove along the dirt road leading to Ian’s cabin, barely seeing the spectacular pink sunset tingeing the sky or enjoying the cool breeze whipping through her open window.
She was pretty sure she was doing something stupid in accepting Ian’s dinner invitation. She didn’t want to be one of those women who took back a guy who treated them like crap, and she sure as hell didn’t trust Ian’s apology. But she’d meant it when she said she wanted something to wipe away that last horrible memory of him. If he was planning on making some grand gesture in apology, she’d take it and be happy to walk away not feeling like an idiot for having such bad judgment when it came to men. She needed to feel in control of something in her life right now.
Still, she’d almost called Ian to cancel a number of times, at least until Hank had dropped by the house and mentioned that Beau was back. After the unexpected call from Candy this morning that revealed Beau hadn’t gone home after all, the news only left Sophie feeling more unsettled. Just hearing the worry in Candy’s voice had left her sweating, and for the first time ever, she hadn’t wanted to talk to her friend.
Sophie had texted Candy to pass on the news that Beau was alive and well enough to use a phone, then had left the house as soon as she could, still at a loss over what to do.
She knew she had to talk to Beau at some point, but the problem was that her stomach didn’t want her to. Neither did her neck muscles, or any other part of her body, which had tensed up so hard at the thought of having him back in her home that she would have made a good wooden doorstop. As horrible as it would be if he threatened her again, it would be worse if he acted like the old Beau, the one she’d known for years, the one who she’d always thought was a nice guy. If he was like the old Beau, she’d doubt herself even more than she already was.
She’d taken Beau out to dinner, she’d hugged him, she’d let him into her room and she hadn’t asked him to leave the door open. Sophie thought through all the times she’d been friendly with him, all the times she’d ruffled his hair like she did Hank’s when he was teasing her . . .
What if Beau uploaded that video and tagged it so anyone searching for Lonely Creek Cabins saw it? What if the people from Hopeville saw it? This was a small community with small-town values that would no doubt be scandalized. The Beau she’d thought she’d known would never do anything like that, but she had no idea about this new Beau. What if—
She took her foot off the accelerator, bringing the truck to a halt and resting her head on the steering wheel. A heavy wave of exhaustion swamped her. She needed sleep.
No.
This wasn’t the way to do this. One thing at a time. She started the truck again and traveled the remaining short distance to Ian’s cabin only to find he wasn’t there.
A note written in heavy-handed scrawl was sitting on the seat of the rocking chair next to the door.
Let yourself in. I’ll be back soon. Ian.
She pushed the door open and sniffed, wrinkling her nose as she immediately recognized the scent of culinary carnage. It only took moments to locate the victims: a leg of lamb and some mystery vegetables that may have once been potatoes.
She looked out the kitchen window, but there wasn’t a car in sight. The only sound to break the nighttime stillness was the low baa of nearby sheep and the distant lowing of cattle.
She wandered through the cabin, ending up in the bedroom. It was a mistake.
The entire room smelled like the cologne Ian used. There was a white shirt laid out on the bed, its label visible. Ermenegildo Zegna. Expensive.
She ran her finger over it, feeling the cool, smooth cotton before looking towards the open door of the bathroom. Ian’s shaving gear was lined up with uniform precision: brush, soap, razor. Also expensive-looking. The shaving soap came in a tin. Sophie walked over and inhaled its green, grassy fragrance and then that of the cologne sitting next to it.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror, seeing the long-sleeve silk shirt and jeans she’d worn. The deep purple shirt was a little too warm, but she needed it to cover up the bruises. With her hair loose and her makeup minimal, she looked normal. She only wished she felt it.
She walked back into the bedroom, picking up Ian’s shirt to inhale his scent again. It was comforting.
It shouldn’t be, but it was.
33
Ian was running late. He’d never been late in his life, at least not to his recollection, and to be late on such an important evening was untenable. Even worse, Sophie had arrived before he could throw out his incinerated attempts at cooking or air out the cabin.
He shouldered the door open, making sure to keep the foil baking trays he was holding horizontal as the scent of the barbecued chicken and roasted vegetables wafted around him.
“Sophie?” His voice was loud in the room’s stillness, and he swiftly placed the evening’s meal on the kitchen table and looked around. Everything was where he’d left it with the exception of an additional two bottles of wine and a navy-blue canvas handbag.
“Sophie?”
He started for the bedroom, worried now, only to come to a stop in the doorway, stunned by the sight before him.
Sophie was curled up into a ball on top of his bed, wrapped in the shirt he’d laid out before choosing to wear another. Her feet were bare, a pair of white sandals on the floor.
He walked over to the bedside and gazed down at her. Her pale blonde hair was loose, half of it resting on her cheek, the other half forming a disordered fan around her head. Her mouth was slightly open, her breathing deep and heavy.
He would have had to be blind not to see the dark circles under her eyes or the way her hands, tucked against her chest, were bunched into fists. The sight made him feel like punching himself.
If she was tired, if she’d had a hard time of late, he was responsible.
He reached out to run a finger over her cheek, then thought better of it. Instead he retreated, closing the bedroom door behind him and setting about getting their dinner plated and prepared.
Presentation, after all, was key to any form of success.
* * *
Sophie felt a touch on her shoulder and came awake swinging.
Beau was in her room. It was going to happen again.
