Dillon has the same handsome face, but somehow it’s more striking on him. Maybe because Dillon does not smile. Ever. Or at least not in my vicinity.
“How long till you start building the gazebo?” I ask, mostly because Dillon’s continued silence is making this chitchat uncomfortable.
“A lot sooner if Doreen would quit tweaking the drawings.” Mr. Kyle winks at me, his affection for my aunt seeping through his teasing. “In the meantime, we have an endless list of smaller projects we can knock out instead.”
Dillon pitches his eyebrow at his father, and the old man retreats. “Sorry . . . Dillon has a list of projects to knock out. One of the perks of being the owner and the boss.” He laughs at his comment as if it were a punch line, and maybe it is, but I don’t get the joke. Apparently neither does Dillon, because the only movement he’s made is to go from looking at his dad to looking directly at me. And not in a casual way. No, his perusal is intense and invasive, like he can see right into my empty chest and peg me for the lovestruck fool I was.
I tug my jacket tighter until I feel less exposed. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. Just thought I’d come take a look.”
“Glad you did. You’re welcome anytime.”
“Thanks.” I back up and focus on Mr. Kyle’s worn boots. They’re crusty brown and ugly, but it’s better than acknowledging Dillon’s laser gaze, which hasn’t found a new target.
I spin around and step quickly onto the path, chastising myself for taking the detour in the first place. I’m almost through my second internal tongue-lashing when the pounding of footsteps halts me mid-step.
“Hey . . . January.” The voice is not Mr. Kyle’s. It’s smooth and deep with a slight rasp. Life is so unfair. A man that moody should not be so darn attractive.
I turn and swallow, irritated that Dillon’s voice could have such a profound effect on my whirling stomach.
“You dropped this.” He stops a foot away, his hand outstretched with one of the three business cards I picked up from the church. It must have fallen out of my coat pocket.
“Thank you.” I take the card, careful not to touch any portion of his skin, and tuck it back in my pocket.
“You look . . . better today,” he says and then immediately focuses on his boots, which are systematically scraping a smear of mud from the stone. “Less . . .” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
My cheeks blaze because I know exactly what he’s witnessed. That I’ve been a walking zombie for weeks. That the stains on my cheeks haven’t been from the wind but from my stupid broken heart. But I also know you don’t say that to someone, especially when it’s the first ten words you’ve ever bothered to utter.
He turns to leave, and though I know I’ll regret it, I can’t seem to stop the words that go flying toward his back: “It’s nice to meet you. This weather sucks, doesn’t it? What’s the business card for? Are you settling in okay?” I’m breathing so hard, my chest literally hurts when he turns back around and looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“What?”
I cross my arms as if trying to ward off the cold, even though I feel nothing but furious heat. “Those are all phrases that would have been appropriate to say to me for our first conversation. Not point out how pathetic I am.” I know I’m overreacting, but I can’t seem to stop the flow of anger that’s had no landing point until now.
His surprise turns to indignation. “I never said you were pathetic. Just that you look better. And you do. Your hair looks shiny and clean, and your makeup isn’t streaked down to your chin.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“No. It’s a statement of fact.”
“Well, next time keep your facts to yourself. Or here’s a thought—say something nice instead.”
“Aren’t pretty words exactly what got you in this mess?” He steps closer, and it’s incredibly difficult not to punch him in the face. “I don’t do flowery nonsense. I say what I mean, and from what I’ve heard about your supposed Prince Charming, you could use a little honesty in your life.”
My mouth drops open, and I’m not sure if I’m more shocked from his statement or from the fact that my aunt Doreen apparently can’t keep a secret. Treacherous tears fill my eyes, and I hate Dillon Kyle right now more than any other person on earth. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Sure I do” is all he says before returning to his trek back to the gazebo.
“Hey!” I yell when he’s far enough that I trust myself not to attack. “I look less what?” He stops but doesn’t turn or answer my question, which only makes me more determined to know. “Come on, Dillon, you said you don’t sugarcoat. What were you going to say?”
He glances over his shoulder, just enough that I see his profile and maybe even the slightest hint of contrition. “Broken. You look less broken.”
four
I’m shaking by the time I slam Aunt Doreen’s front door. “Did you tell Mr. Kyle about what happened in San Antonio?”
“Well hello to you, too.” She appears as if out of a TV sitcom from the fifties, with a towel in her hand, an apron wrapped around her waist, and an expression that’s one part scolding and the other part concerned. “Any particular reason you’re shouting at me from the doorway?”
I close my eyes and quietly take two deep breaths. Sometimes I forget how different Doreen’s house is from the one I grew up in. Yelling was natural there. Here it’s an anomaly. When my heart rate calms, I try again. “I talked with Dillon today, and he seemed awfully informed on my colossal lack in judgment. He wasn’t all that sympathetic about it, either.” I know my voice is accusing, but if she’s planning on spilling my secrets to the world, she should at least give me a heads-up.
“Dillon Kyle is an angry young man for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with you.” She wraps an arm around my shoulder and squeezes me to her chest. I can’t help but acquiesce. She smells like cinnamon and a perfume I would hate in the store but love on her because it makes me feel safe. “But, yes, we did tell his father what happened, because Robert is a very dear friend of ours and I wanted someone I trust watching out for you.” She walks me toward the kitchen. “Plus, your uncle can’t keep a secret to save his life, and they’re fishing buddies.”
“Great,” I moan. “The whole world is going to know I’m a fool.”
“Falling in love does not make you a fool.”
“No, but moving halfway across the country on a whim sure does.”
Doreen kisses the top of my head. She’s two inches taller than I and four inches taller than my mother. It seems fitting since she’s always been the older, wiser one. “Well, look at it this way: if you had gotten married, it would have been one heck of a romantic story.”
I snort but find the tears receding and my temper completely gone. “Dinner smells good.”
She unlatches her arms and returns to the stove. Only then do I notice what she’s wearing beneath her lime green apron: black slacks, a blinged-out hot pink sweater, and stiletto boots.