We can talk.” My heart reacted to the stiff way he stood, the washed out color in his face. If a cup of coffee and some conversation would ease his tension, I was all too happy to offer.
He hesitated, and I thought he was going to say no. But then he said, “Yeah. That would be nice. Let me go get out of uniform and I’ll be right back.” He started to step away but said, “Lock your door. I’ll knock.”
Once inside, I locked up as he’d requested and went to the kitchen. I barely had the coffee brewing when there was a light rap on my door. Even though I knew it was Nate, I checked through the peephole just to be sure. I couldn’t stop thinking about the woman he’d told me about. Sliding the chain off, I said, “Come in.”
“Please tell me you didn’t open this door without seeing who it was.”
“I looked. And I saw it was you,” I said softly. “Come on, you need to relax.”
He exhaled. “I’m sorry. It usually takes me awhile to clear my head after a bad night. I don’t mean to be taking it out on you.”
“I can’t imagine the things you’ve seen.”
He followed me into the living room and sat on the couch, his long legs spread out in front of him. I curled up on one of my ugly chairs. This was the first time I’d seen him in anything other than his uniform or sweats. He had jeans on, along with a soft-looking flannel shirt the color of a worn teddy bear. His eyes were a dark jade.
More than beat, he appeared empty—as if what he’d witnessed had reached down inside of him and jarred everything loose. I wondered how often he had bad nights. After all, we didn’t live in small-town USA. And then I wondered how long it would take for the pieces to settle again. For him to have that amazing smile I’d seen so often in such a short time frame.
“Why do you keep doing it?”
“Because I can’t do anything else,” he replied.
“What do you mean?”
He cleared his throat, and I didn’t think he was going to answer, but then he said, “When I was a kid, my mother was attacked. A police officer saved her life. That’s why I do it, to help keep people whole.” And then, in an obvious attempt to change the subject, he asked, “How long have you lived here?”
“Almost a year.” Everything in me softened as I looked at him. Somehow, I’d met a really cool guy. In today’s world, that’s not so easy to do.
A slight grin tipped the corners of his lips, and I was happy for it. “Really? That long?” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
His teasing tone vanquished any embarrassment I might have felt. “I haven’t unpacked much yet.”
“How come?”
Such a simple question. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a simple answer. The beeping of the coffeemaker saved me. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black.”
“I thought I was the only person to drink coffee at night,” I said when I returned to the living room. Handing him his cup, I had the impossible desire to brush my fingers across his cheek. To wipe the strain away from his expression. To somehow offer him comfort.
“I drink it all hours of the day.” Accepting the cup, he patted the cushion next to him. “Sit. Let’s talk.”
He didn’t have to ask me twice. I sat down and angled my body toward his. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Anything other than what I did tonight. Tell me about you.”
“Me? There’s not much to tell. I’m divorced and I work in a bakery. Oh, and I suck at follow-through. That pretty much sums it up.” Well, that and I was the descendent of a gypsy. And I could spell people with baked goods. But really, he didn’t need to know that.
“Follow-through? What do you mean?”
“Take a look around. I start crafts, but I don’t finish them. I start unpacking, yet it’s never really done. I make myself promises and rarely keep them. I’m sort of stuck between here and where I want to be.”
His body tensed. Not in a negative way, but in a I’m-really-paying-attention-to-you way. “Where do you want to be?”
“I don’t know. That’s probably why I’m stuck.” I laughed, trying to lighten the suddenly serious moment. All the focus on me was a little uncomfortable. “Happy, I guess.”
“Why aren’t you happy?” He smelled so good, and all