some men do have the common courtesy to enjoy a feast prepared by a good woman.
Grabbing a napkin, I dab at the remnants of tears on her cheeks, and she whispers her thanks.
We dine, and we chat, and I steer the conversation to innocuous topics. “Favorite cheese? If you had to pick one cheese for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
She shoots me a you-can’t-be-serious look after that question. “Are you trying to be cruel and unusual?”
I laugh, waving it off. “You’re right. Having only one kind of cheese forever and ever does sound like a fresh new hell.”
She nudges me with her elbow. “Exactly.” She rolls her eyes. “Next thing you know, you’ll be trying to get me to choose only one wine for the rest of my days.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’ve learned my lesson. I swear.”
“Good.” She lowers her voice. “For the record, it’d be a white.”
“Ah, so you do have a favorite wine?”
“Not a wine-for-the-rest-of-my-life, but I do prefer whites. You?”
“Beer.”
She laughs, and it’s such a better sound than the sobs.
A little later, I’ve polished off more cheese and crackers, along with some almonds and olives, and Arden has nibbled on a few strawberries and grapes.
“Let me walk you to your car,” I tell her, after she packs up her basket. “Little red Honda down by the trailhead?”
“That’s mine.”
A few minutes later, I open the driver’s side door for her and then reach around to set the basket in the back seat.
I wag a finger at her. “Now, don’t let him get you down, you promise me?”
She nods and smiles, but it’s an apologetic one. “I’ll do my best. And thank you, Gabe. You helped so much.”
“I’m glad I was there. I’m glad my chest was there too, so you didn’t knock any robins down with that sniper aim of yours.”
She laughs then winces. “I’m sorry about that. Sorry you had to see me crying too.”
“Don’t think twice about it. Just promise me this: don’t let any jerks win your heart again.”
She holds up a pinky. “I promise.”
I’ve never pinky sworn before, but now seems as good a time as any. I wrap my little finger around hers. “There. It’s a deal. I’ll be looking out for you.”
“I appreciate that.”
When she takes off, I turn around, pick up the pace, and resume my run, trying my best to think of other women. Like the cute little brunette from Whiskey Hollows I met the other night at a barbecue, or the leggy redhead from the gym who asked me to work out with her.
Anyone.
Anyone at all but the woman who’s had her dignity stomped on.
The woman who is, for all intents and purposes, as unavailable as she was the day I met her.
The woman whose heart is broken over another man.
I shovel a hand through my hair as if I can rid myself of the inappropriate thoughts about how damn pretty she is, even with her tear-stained cheeks and sad brown eyes.
Pretty and technically available.
But I’d have to give myself the Jackass of the Century prize if I tried to take advantage of her right now, or anytime soon. And I’m not interested in collecting any trophies of that nature.
I run like my pants are on fire for five miles, and that does the trick.
For now.
After I leave the woods, I jog past my parents’ home, dart up the stone path, and knock on the door. My dad answers quickly, clapping me on the back.
“Can’t believe you didn’t invite me to join you on your run,” he deadpans. “I’m wounded.”
“I’m only looking out for you. You’d get addicted if I did. You’d want to run marathons.”
He ran plenty of marathons back in the day and kicked ass in every single one.
I walk past the living room, stopping to give my mom a kiss on the forehead as she reads some book she surely picked up from Arden’s store.
Fuck. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking of Arden.
In the kitchen I grab a glass of water, down a thirsty gulp, then set it on the counter as my dad strides in. “Want something to eat?”
“I already ate. Thanks.”
“At Silver Phoenix Lake?”
I laugh. “Yeah. Funny thing. I ran into a picnic.”
He arches one eyebrow in confusion.
I wave it off. “Long story.”
“I have time.”
“It’s complicated.”
He grabs a stool and sits down, folding his hands in his lap, waiting for me to tell him the tale.
I drag a hand through my sweaty hair. “So, Dad. There’s