He huffs out a breath as he looks off into my side yard before returning his attention to me. “I don’t have any friends. Not a single one. Wait… that might not be accurate. My teammate who came over yesterday… I could call him a friend, but that’s tenuous. The truth is, you know I’m an asshole, and it’s not been conducive to fostering relationships.”

  “Want me to be the guinea pig, huh?” I jokingly say.

  “Yeah,” he admits, and my smile softens at the admission. “I’d like to try to be your friend.”

  And that definitely gets me in the feels. I find it absurd to be having this conversation, because truly, he’s still my enemy. He stands between me and my dreams with this property. I should give him back the bottle of wine and tell him I’ll see him in court.

  But that’s not how I am. I’m willing to give people the benefit of the doubt, and maybe if he gets to know me, we might be able to negotiate a truce on the trees.

  Maybe I can talk him into letting me have my driveway.

  “Okay… let’s give this a try. In an attempt to explore the concept of friendship, I’d like to invite you to join me and my friends at the music festival this afternoon.”

  The barest hint of a smile plays at his lips as he inclines his head. “That sounds like a good place to start.”

  “I’ll even let you share my blanket,” I announce with a grin.

  To my surprise, he pulls the tote off my shoulder. “I’ll carry that for you.”

  Gallant, and it gives me butterflies. I want to chastise myself not to get caught up in that stuff. I want to tell myself to be careful.

  In fact, I should outline the expectations as we descend the porch and head to my car. “Friendship does not mean you’re getting in my panties.”

  Coen stops and wraps his fingers around my wrist, forcing me to stop as well. His tone is light, but his expression is dead serious. “I’m still getting in your panties. Tonight, as a matter of fact.”

  My mouth goes dry. He’s not kidding.

  And I know he’s not budging on the idea.

  Just as I know if he even so much as kisses me, I’ll give in.

  But I won’t admit that to him, so I pull my arm free and lift my chin. “We’ll see.”

  “Yes, we will,” he promises in a low rumble, and a pang of desire hits me straight between my legs.

  Laughing, he moves to my car door and opens it for me. I slide in and am painfully aware of how crappy my car is compared to what he must be used to. Sure, he drives a truck, but it’s a damn nice one with leather seats and all the bells and whistles.

  I have bucket seats with cheap, threadbare upholstery, and my air conditioning only works half the time.

  When Coen gets in on the passenger side, I say, “Apologies that my chariot’s probably not up to your standards.”

  His head swivels and his gaze meets mine in what I recognize as censorship. “I don’t care about stuff like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble as I start the car. “I just stereotyped you.”

  Coen shrugs. “Actually, I used to care about that stuff. But I unloaded my fancy cars when I moved here. It’s all just smoke and mirrors.”

  “Doesn’t show the real you?” I guess as I pull out of my driveway.

  “These days, I’m not even sure who the real me is.”

  I bet that admission was hard for him, and I lead us away from any further talk of it. “Well, today I think you should just do what I plan to do. Listen to some good music, drink a few beers, eat some burgers and hot dogs, and I’ll most assuredly get sunburned at some point. It’s tradition.”

  Coen laughs as he adjusts one of the AC vents, which is thankfully blowing cool air. “I assume you have sunscreen. I’ll help you put it on.”

  A shiver runs up my spine at the thought of his hands on my skin. Now that’s all I can think about.

  I wonder if I’ll even be able to relax enough around him to enjoy the festival, but I’m glad I invited him. If anyone needs to have some fun, it’s Coen Highsmith.

  ♦

  I don’t know if Coen’s enjoying himself. He’s not having an awful time because his expression has been pleasant, and he joins conversations when directly posed a question. Otherwise, he’s observant and listens intently.

  His quiet nature sets the tone that he doesn’t want to talk about himself, and everyone has been respecting it.

  By everyone, I mean mostly Ann Marie and Xander, although Hayley, Erica, and Hank are flitting in and out. They like hanging around the stage for the music while we’ve spread our blankets near the back of the crowd, under the shade of some oak trees.

  Not that we’ve sat still the entire time. The Cherry Springs Music Festival invites an eclectic array of performers. They’re all local to Pennsylvania or nearby states. It’s not a massive production, but the music is good.

  Several songs have induced me and the ladies to dance, mostly alternative and punk. And it’s not really dancing—more like laughing and jumping around. I invited Coen to join us, but he was very vocal about his lack of dance talent and declined. Not that we girls have talent, but we don’t mind making spectacles of ourselves. It’s probably why when Cici and her crowd walked by, they called us weirdos, but it bounced right off. They called us that throughout our childhood and adolescence because we didn’t come from the right families, we didn’t wear trendy clothes, and we were in band or ran the art club. None of us dated jocks, we were far too uncoordinated for cheerleading or any other sports, and yes, I was even on the debate team, although I hated it. I only did it to build my résumé for college.

  In essence, those activities—and refusal to do what the in crowd does—results in being labeled as lame and as far from cool as can be.

  But Cici’s derision didn’t stop us. We laughed, jumped around more, and made bigger spectacles of ourselves as the music blared. At one point, I looked back at Coen lounging on the blanket and chewing on a blade of grass as he watched us with a slight smile.

  No, not watching us.

  Watching me.

  And it made me a little self-conscious because he’s a famous athlete who most women would kill to have look at them just once, but his eyes are on me, and I don’t know why. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

  But I didn’t let it stop me from having fun.

  When the set is over, Ann Marie and I head over to the blankets. Erica and Hayley take off with Hank for more beer.

  “Where’s Xander?” I ask Coen breathlessly as I plop down beside him, sitting cross-legged. I reach for my beer and sip, grimacing because it’s grown warm, so I set it aside.

  Coen nods over his shoulder. “Talking to some friends, I guess.”

  “I’ll be back,” Ann Marie says and trots off to join Xander, leaving Coen and me alone.

  I glance around at the crowd. Although we’re on the back fringes, still plenty of people nearby. “No one seems to recognize you.”

  Coen bought a festival ball cap when we arrived. He doesn’t want the attention, and I don’t blame him. I’ve read enough articles to know that while he was the golden boy of the Titans before the plane crashed, his reputation took a hit after. Anyone who recognizes him might ask for a friendly autograph—or cuss him out for getting suspended. Some articles have opined the Titans could’ve made it past the first round if he’d been playing.

  “Not sure if I’m not being recognized or if my asshole reputation over the last few months is scaring people away.”

  The way he’s lying on the blanket, rolled onto one hip with his elbow supporting his weight, makes him look so casual and carefree, it’s hard to remember he’s got issues.

  I grab a blade of grass and wind it around my finger. I don’t know how to have a conversation with him. By all accounts, he can be intimidating. While he says he wants to be my friend, the way he watches me makes it clear that friendship isn’t the thing driving him to pay attention to me. We still have this wall between us in the form of a contentious tree line.

  How can we ever be friends?

  “Tell me about your art,” he says. “Is that how you make your living?”

  Safe enough subject, I suppose, especially since it’s about the here and now and not about my future plans. “Well, I graduated from the Savannah College of Art and Design four years ago. My degree is in painting, but I concentrate on watercolors. And currently, I make a living by posting my art on retail sites where customers can print it in a variety of ways and I earn a commission.”

  “You mean, like, they can print it with a frame or on a canvas?”

  “There’s that, but also on totes, cups, mouse pads, phone cases, novelty items.”

  He makes a sound of surprise. “I didn’t even know such a thing existed.”

  “You can have a set of breakfast coffee mugs with my watercolor of the Allegheny Reservoir that I finished this week or a huge canvas to hang over your couch.”

  Coen smiles. “I assume you make more money on the canvas than the cups.”

  “You’d be right about that.” I laugh. “And I obviously get more enjoyment when people buy my work to hang on their walls rather than stuff in their cupboards.”

  “I bet,” he muses. “Is it a good living?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a soft smile. “I mean… I’m not swimming in luxury clothes or sports cars, but I pay my bills, have a savings account, and I even put a little into a retirement each month.”

  “And you’re from this area?”

  “Born and raised, same as my parents.”

  “And where are they?”

  “They passed away a year and a half ago. Car accident.”

  Coen winces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” His expression softens in a way I haven’t seen on him, and it warms my chest. “Were you close to them?”

  “Extremely.” I push back the sadness creeping in and focus on the good. “They were both artists, so I come by it naturally. Dad was a painter, but my mom created amazing metal sculptures.”

  “You have one in your front yard,” he says. “A rabbit riding a bicycle.”

  I beam at him, surprised he noticed it. “That’s right. I have a bunch of her work in storage. I plan on putting some of it out along my trails so when I’m out there, I can see it.”

  Coen smiles and nods.

  “What about you? Where are you from?”

  His mouth draws into a flat line. “Connecticut.”

  “Don’t like it there?”

  “Not close to my family, so I don’t go back.”

  His tone breaks my heart. It’s not said with bitterness or anger, more like flat acceptance. And while I know the man hasn’t been all that nice to me, or to the sport of hockey since the crash, I’ve also read enough about him to know he hasn’t always been like this. He’s been described as fun-loving, cocky with a humble edge, and generous to a fault, working with many Pittsburgh charities. If he has emotional baggage from his family, I’m not sure if he was carrying it around prior to the crash.

  However, if he wasn’t close to them before the plane went down, chances of them being a good support system are nil.

  Coen reaches out and runs his fingertip over my thigh. The touch is featherlight, but I feel it straight between my legs. My eyes snap up, and he’s got a devilish smile on his face. “Are you going to invite me back to your place when we leave?”

  My heartbeat thunders at the request. “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me why you’d say no.” His entire palm presses on my thigh, and he squeezes. “Let me talk you into it.”

  “Maybe you can’t,” I suggest.

  His thumb grazes my skin before his hand falls away. “Remember what it felt like when my face was pressed between your legs?”

  “Oh God.” I look around to make sure no one can hear us.

  “I want to do that again,” he says, his voice gruff and thick with promise.

  “Oh God,” I whisper, unable to come up with anything better.

  “Say you’ll invite me home with you.” Coen pushes up from his lounging position to lean on his hip. His face is close to mine, and I can’t tear my eyes from his. “You won’t regret it.”

  I’m sure I’ll regret it because there’re a million reasons why this is a bad idea.

  And yet, I can’t help but answer, “Okay.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Tillie

  My heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest, and the sensation of excitement dappled with unease ripples through me. This could be a very bad idea.

  Could be a very good idea.

  I thought I knew the measure of the type of man Coen was, but today he flipped the script.

  Before, I figured his interest was basic, rooted in carnality and probably a need to control. Proximity had to play a part, and maybe I’m just an easy conquest because if I’d let him perform oral sex on me up against a tree when I barely knew him, he has to assume I’d let him into my bed.

  And if that’s all there was between us, that would be easier to accept because the rules are defined.

  But he’s made it all weird now by claiming to want to be my friend. We hung out all afternoon and into the early evening with my friends. Quiet though he was, for the most part, he was not standoffish, and we had what could pass as normal conversations between two people who are developing a friendship.

  Then the sun set, the moon rose, and the festival got packed. Most of the people there were supremely inebriated and fights broke out. Ann Marie and Xander were the first to leave, taking Hayley home, and when Erica and Hank decided to bug out, I knew it was time to leave too. I might have waited until the last possible minute because I knew Coen had expectations for when we left, and I fully intended to fulfill them. I might be feeling some trepidation, but mostly my nerves are rooted in anticipation of what Coen said he wanted to do to me.

  The ride home was quiet, and Coen didn’t say a word as he got out of my car and followed me onto the porch.

  As I slip my key into the lock, Coen presses his body into my backside. His palms rest against the door, and he effectively cages me in with his size and body heat.

  My breath freezes, and I hold still.

  Nuzzling at my nape, he murmurs, “Scared, Tillie?”

  It’s the first time he’s used my nickname that I haven’t minded. I shake my head.

  “Nervous?” His lips graze my neck as one arm circles around my waist to hold me back against him.

  “A little,” I admit in a whisper, ashamed to admit it.

  “Don’t be.” His other hand comes over mine, still holding the key in the lock, and he helps me turn it. “I promise you’ll go to sleep with a smile on your face tonight.”

  I remember how after we had sex a week ago, he got dressed and walked out. He said he wasn’t a nice man, even though he was a generous lover, but he still walked out.

  Will I be hurt when he walks out again tonight?

  Possibly, but I’m willing to risk it. Because while he confounds me completely, he fascinates me like no other person ever has.

  And I want him.

  I turn the knob and push my door open. Coen releases his hold on me, and I enter my house. He follows and shuts the door behind him.

  When I turn back to look at him, he’s flipping the porch light on. I doubt it’s for safety reasons but merely to prove the point I’m letting him in.

  I drop my purse on the couch and toss my keys there.

  “Come here,” he says, not moving from the door.

  Frowning, I tip my head in question.

  “Come here and prove to me that you want me here. You won’t hurt my feelings if you’re having second thoughts.”

  My frown deepens. “I’m not having second thoughts.”

  “You should.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?” I ask as I walk up to him.

  He stares down at me, eyes dark with desire. Coen’s hand moves to my jaw, and he rubs his thumb over my bottom lip. “I’ve observed you in a lot of different scenarios these last few weeks, and I don’t think there’s a single thing you’re scared of.”

  I blink with surprise because he makes it sound like a compliment.

  “I also think you’re incredibly smart and you have to be questioning the logic of getting involved with someone like me. I want you to prove to me you want me here.”

  My breath feathers out in a sigh, and I slip my hands around the back of his neck. Going to my tiptoes, I pull him down so his mouth is forced to meet mine.

  I actually feel Coen relax, as if he’d been afraid I might push him out the door. His arms band around me and his tongue slides against mine in a dance of lust and need.

  My world tilts as Coen sweeps me up into his arms. Not the same way he carried me before with my legs around his waist and his hands gripping my ass, but cradled in his arms as he walks to my room.

  And still his mouth is on mine.

  Only my bedside lamp is on, and the room is muted in a soft glow. Coen sets me on my feet, puts his hands to my cheeks, and kisses me again. He’s barely touched me, and I’m already electric with need, mainly because of all the sinful promises he’s made.

  Pulling back, his hands go to the hem of my shirt, and he tugs it up and over my head. For a long moment, he just stares at my breasts before flicking the front clasp open so they spill free of my bra.

  I have a moment of self-consciousness as he takes me in. I’ve never been ashamed of my body size, the clothes I wear, my freckles, or that my hair is so curly.

  I don’t care that my nose isn’t perfect and my eyes are a little too wide.

  I’ve never tried to impress anyone with airs, and all I know is how to be my authentic self. It’s always been enough for anyone who deserved to be in my inner circle, and yet at this moment, a frisson of doubt courses through me. My arms move on instinct to cover myself.

  Coen frowns, his hands latching on to my wrists. “Don’t do that.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, but it turns into a moan as his palms cup me. His thumbs graze over my nipples, and I moan louder.

  “Why would you want to hide this from me?” he asks in a low voice of wonder, but he’s talking to himself.

  “I… don’t understand you,” I say, and his eyes, previously focused on my chest, rise to meet mine in question. “Why me?”

 

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