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“Oh, okay.” She tries not to smile but fails. “Then I’ll have a coffee.”
“I’ll get right on that, baby.” My hands drop from her freezing face. “Please get out of that fucking shower.”
“I have to condition my hair still,” she says. “It’s fine. You get used to it.”
“I also don’t think that’s how it works.” I shake my head.
She pushes me away as she steps back in the shower, and I walk to her bedroom and then outside to the kitchen. I’m grabbing things to make coffee when I see movement coming from the front of the house through the window. I put the mugs down as the hair on the back of my neck sticks up. “What the fuck?” I move my head to the side and see him: the fucking reporter. He looks around to make sure no one is looking in his direction when he reaches out for the mailbox at the curb. I rush to get my boots on, head to the door, and open it before storming out there. There’s a stack of letters in his hand. It takes me three strides to be in front of him, shocking him enough when I grab the front of his shirt. “What the fuck are you doing?”
His face pales, the letters falling from his hand. “Oof,” he grunts, his hands going to my wrist.
“I asked you a fucking question,” I hiss at him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Get off me.” He tries to fight me off him, but I’m holding on to him for dear life. The rage fills my whole body. “Get the fuck off me.” He moves side to side to try to get my hands to get off him. “I’m fucking suing you for assault.”
“Not assaulting you if you are on private property and I’m defending the person who lives here,” I inform him, my teeth clenched together. “Now, I won’t ask you again. The next person I’ll call is the sheriff, who I think would be interested to know why you were touching someone’s mail. I think that’s a federal crime.” There is literally no other color on his face. “Now, what’s it going to be? You answer my questions, or I call the sheriff and you can answer his questions?” I ask, but I’m so far gone, the second the question comes out I expect him to answer me. “Tick, tock,” I say, moving my hand to me and then back again, shaking him.
“Fine, fine,” he concedes, and I loosen my fist and push him away from me.
“Talk.” I fold my arms over my chest to stop from punching him in the face. “What are you doing here?”
“I was hired by the Cartwrights,” he says and everything in my body gets tight. “They are looking for anything that will prove she”—he points at the house—“was responsible for the accident in one way or another. That maybe the two of you were the reason he was drinking since you two are now, you know.”
“You’re shitting me right now.”
“I’m not shitting you.” He smooths down his shirt that is balled at the chest and wrinkled. “They feel like their son was done a disservice by Ms. Thatcher, so they would like anything that would make her look like she was a liar and an opportunist.” I count to ten, or at least I know I should count to ten, but I don’t.
“Get the fuck off her property, and if I find you even sniffing in her direction, you’ll have to deal with me. And, buddy, word to the wise.” I take a step forward. “I would not fuck with me.”
He holds up his hands. “Yeah, yeah,” he backpedals, “this town is shot to shit anyway.” He turns and gets into his truck. I take out my phone and snap a picture of his license plate and send it straight to my grandfather.
The phone rings two seconds later. “We have a situation,” I say, bending and picking up the mail as I fill him in.
He doesn’t even tease me about being at Autumn’s house at the ass crack of dawn. “This just shot up to the top of my to-do list,” he states and then hangs up.
I look up to the sky before turning and walking back into the house at the same time she walks out of the bedroom, wearing the T-shirt I wore last night, a white towel wrapped up on top of her head. “Where were you?” she asks, looking at me standing here in my jeans and boots.
“Went to get your mail,” I lie to her, holding it up.
Her eyeballs go big. “You went out to get my mail half naked?”
“I’m not naked.” I put the mail on the kitchen table. “I’m wearing pants. If I went out in my boxers, then I would be half naked.”
“Charlie,” she hisses, “people could see you!” I raise my eyebrows.
“Are you embarrassed?” I tease her as she glares at me, and I snatch her around her waist. “I like seeing you in my T-shirt.” I kiss her neck.
“Is my coffee ready?” she asks but wraps her arms around my neck, not letting me move away from her. “Say it,” she urges, looking up at me. All night long if she woke up, she would whisper to me for me to say how I feel about her.
“I,” I say, kissing her lips, “love”—another kiss—“you.” This time, I slide my tongue into her mouth. I’m about to pick her up when my phone rings, and I know it’s my grandfather. “I have to get that,” I say, her arms let go of my neck.
“How about I make coffee, then?” She turns and walks into the kitchen as I put the phone to my ear.
“Not a good time,” I mention, knowing I can’t talk.
“Good, so you can listen,” my grandfather says, and I watch her make us coffee. “I think it’s a good idea you guys come visit us this weekend. Make sure this guy leaves town, and if not, there might be blowback. I don’t want the two of you involved in whatever I have planned, since you are now involved with each other.” He slides in that comment, and if this wasn’t a tense moment, I would laugh.
“Got it,” I confirm, knowing I probably don’t got it. There is no way she is going to leave town so close to the event and knowing how busy the bar gets on the weekends.
