could tell herself she was just checking in about the dance—they were supposed to start rehearsing that afternoon, after all. But the truth was, she couldn’t get that look on his face out of her mind. She’d fallen asleep last night replaying the argument she’d witnessed and her brief conversation with Gemma. She’d tried to piece the story together, but she didn’t have all the facts. Was Cole really still so hung up on his ex-wife that he couldn’t be in the same room with her?
And maybe he was a combination of angry, bitter, and jealous—but the look on his face suggested he was something else too. Hurt.
Somehow, it made all of his shortcomings fall away. She understood he had a reason not to trust her. It made sense he was standoffish, even rude.
But how did she prove to him that not all women were like Gemma? How did she prove that he could trust her, that they could be friends?
She didn’t know, but apparently a part of her thought it was a good idea to start with unannounced pastries.
More than likely another grand faux pas in the making.
She headed up the sidewalk and stopped just before she stepped onto the front porch. She could still turn and run the other way. She could pretend the pastries were for Lucy. She could hurry off before he ever knew she was here.
She turned around, then heard the door open. “Is this payback?”
She stopped. She supposed she did look a lot like he had the other night standing on her porch. Caught.
Slowly, she turned on her heel and faced him, standing in the door with a toothbrush in his hand. He wore jeans and no shirt, and his hair was damp, but he looked clean-shaven and probably brimming with that I’m not trying very hard scent he wore so well.
“Hey,” she said, trying not to look at his abs. They were impressive.
She wasn’t doing a very good job of not looking.
He leaned on the doorjamb, his face void of expression. “Hey.”
She held up the bag. “Breakfast?”
He looked at it, probably knew exactly what was inside, then turned around and walked back in the house, leaving the door open.
Was she supposed to follow?
She hesitated for a long moment before finally venturing up onto the porch and inside the cottage. She had to admit, she’d wondered what it looked like in here. With the lake in his backyard, she imagined this was prime Harbor Pointe real estate. It didn’t have the same view as Lucy’s house—no bright red lighthouse—but she imagined the sunsets were brilliant out the large windows that faced the lake at the back of the house.
“It’s a work in progress,” he said when he noticed her looking around.
“What a great place,” she said.
The open floor plan made it feel bigger than it was. She would describe the space as “cozy,” and while it could use some updating, she was pretty sure it had the potential to be stunning.
“Probably a lot different than your place in Chicago.” He pulled on a worn gray T-shirt.
Shame.
“Bare walls, stuff in boxes, view of the lake—not that different,” she said. And yet, completely different. This cottage had the potential to be a home. Not that she knew much of anything about homes—she’d never really had one of her own. She didn’t count the apartment in Chicago as anything other than “the place where I sleep.”
She’d considered framing some of her ballet photos and hanging them up, but it had never happened. She hadn’t had time. Besides, it was slightly depressing not to have any other personal photos to display. So, she’d never really had a home—and she only realized in that moment how desperately she wanted one.
“Pity pastries?” He walked over to the sink, scrubbed his teeth for a few long seconds, spit out the toothpaste, and flipped on the faucet. He leaned into the stream, sucked in some water, spit it out, then wiped his mouth with a towel, tossing the toothbrush on the counter.
For some reason, she felt like she was watching something she shouldn’t, which was ridiculous—he was brushing his teeth, not changing his clothes.
Heat rushed to her cheeks at the thought of it.
“Pity pastries?” she repeated.
“I used to get them a lot,” he said. “Let me guess—cinnamon roll, apple tart, and a blueberry scone?”
“I honestly don’t know. Betsy told me she’d give me a bag of your favorites.”
His slow nod seemed to imply that his guess was correct.