Best Laid Plans Read online

He grabs my wrist—like he did in the elevator but without desire, only determination. “I’m not justifying it.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “Jesus Christ, I’m explaining why things were weird. Would you just let me?”

  “They weren’t weird, and you don’t owe me an explanation. I didn’t ask for your help in the bedroom because I thought you were innocent. I asked for help because you have lots of experience.”

  His jaw clenches, ticking. “That’s not the point, Arden. I didn’t have sex with her. We didn’t do anything.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say again, but my voice is tight, stretched thin as I force out untrue words. It does matter. Everything matters. If I let this longing between us spiral into uncharted waters, I’ll be the next one he passes on the street and shares an awkward introduction with. The next woman who’s professional and polite with him.

  “Yes. It. Does.” He lets go of my wrist and drags a hand through his hair. “Will you just listen to me?”

  I exhale, my throat catching, and I nod. The least I can do is give him the floor.

  He holds up his index finger. “We went on one date. Nothing happened. She wanted to go out again. And I didn’t. I told her as much. I was up-front and clear. I didn’t lead her on about my intentions. And I didn’t screw her and ditch her. I’m sorry she was kind of cold.”

  “It’s okay. I’d probably feel the same way she did,” I say, letting down my guard, choosing honesty.

  “I don’t want you to feel like that.”

  How do you want me to feel? I’m dying to ask. How do you feel? Because something changed in the elevator. Something shifted between us. And I don’t know what it is or how to go forward. But if this brief experiment with him has taught me anything, it’s that speaking my mind matters. “I want to be friends with you. I don’t want to be the woman who gives you a cold look because you didn’t want to go out again. And I’m sorry,” I say, choking out an apology.

  “For what?”

  “For the ‘experience’ comment. It was snide and shitty.”

  He laughs. “It’s okay. You called a spade a spade.”

  I shake my head. “It was rude.”

  “I didn’t feel slut-shamed, for what it’s worth.”

  “Good. I don’t believe in slut-shaming.”

  “Then we practice the same religion. There should be no such thing as slut-shaming. Sex is good. Sex is a wonderful thing. Let’s stop arguing.”

  I nod, swallowing the dumb lump in my throat. “I hate fighting.”

  He reaches for me, wraps his arms around my shoulders, and tugs me close. “Then let’s not fight.”

  I rest my head against his shoulder, savoring the strength of his arms, the warmth of his touch. But even so, I’m still thinking about how his arms felt in the elevator. How his hands pinned my wrists. How his body moved against mine, hard and aroused.

  And I’m thinking, too, about how I feel when I’m with him. How I felt walking down that hallway with him to see his pops, like I was special to Gabe. How I felt in the suite when the three of us talked, and then when I read. I swear Gabe looked at me like he was seeing new things in me.

  I think I’m seeing new things in him too.

  That’s so damn dangerous.

  But even after seeing what happens to women who want more of Gabe than he can give, I still long for both parts of him.

  For the man who hugs me like this.

  And the one who wanted me like that.

  I want both sides, and I wonder if I can find a way to have them without getting hurt. And without losing something as precious as our friendship.

  29

  Gabe

  My mom’s chicken tacos are delicious, and my father insists she not lay a finger on the dishes when we’re done feasting.

  “Go sit in your new porch swing, read a book, put your feet up.” He points to the wraparound deck, home to the wooden swing she loves. “I don’t want to see you in the kitchen at all, Maggie.”

  She huffs, raising her hands in surrender. “If you insist.”

  “I absolutely do.”

  I pat my dad on the back. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll make sure he doesn’t slack off in the kitchen and resort to watching baseball.”

  “Like you would do,” my dad teases.

  “I know you’ll both be good boys,” she says then excuses herself.

  I join my father, helping him clean as we catch up on the latest news—Charlie leaving for Florida, my sister getting ready for her third kid, and, of course, Pops.

  “I heard you and Arden visited Michael this morning.” There’s a leading tone to his voice as he hands me a plate to dry.

  “Did Mom tell you that?”

  He laughs. “Nope. Michael did. I stopped by to go for a walk with him this afternoon, and all he talked about was the two of you. I swear, he never shut up. He was quite taken by her.”

  I set the plate in the cupboard. “He has good taste.”

  “Indeed.” Dad clears his throat, raises his eyebrows. “You’ve never brought anyone by before. Not even Shaw or Charlie.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s so special about Arden?” The question is open-ended, rather than an interrogation. It’s designed for conversation.

  But I’ve told him about Arden. “You know she’s special.”

  “Tell me why again.”

  It’s easy to go on about why she’s captured my attention. “She’s smart, and she’s loyal, and she has no problem kicking my ass in darts or bowling or puzzles. And she’s kind to other people. To all people, as a matter of fact. She makes me laugh. And she’s pretty damn straightforward.” I flash back to earlier in the parking lot, and the words we said. We skirted around the topic at first, but in the end, she was up-front with me, especially about her wishes—being friends.

  “What are you going to do about all that?”

  I grab another plate and run a towel across it. “That’s the issue. She’s focused on the friend zone, it seems. So what the heck can I do?”

  He chuckles thoughtfully. “Keep showing her what a good friend you can be. Let her know that’s rock solid. There’s no better foundation for something serious later on than a friendship right now.”

  “Is that so?”

  “That is so. I should know. Your mom and I were friends first. And I wore her down.”

  I laugh. “You’re relentless. Like erosion.”

  “Exactly. That’s how I won her over. Like a river over rocks.” He hangs up the towel on the cupboard knob and pins me with his serious stare. “I’m not saying Arden will fall for you. She may be one of the rare women immune to your charms.”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

  “But if you think she’s not there yet, all you can do is keep showing her you’re there for her.”

  I let his advice roll around in my head as we leave the kitchen and tune into the Giants, but after a half inning, I’m restless, and my mind is elsewhere. My mind is on her. I take out my phone and open Words with Friends, returning to a game we started a few days ago.

  Neither one of us has played a word for a while, so I text her first.

  * * *

  Gabe: How’s your night? Just had dinner with my parents. You should join us sometime soon.

  * * *

  That’s erosion. The good kind.

  * * *

  Arden: I’d love to. :)

  * * *

  There. Something to build on. I scan the board, hunting for a word to ladder onto. I laugh privately when I spot something I can form on the T at the end of another word.

  * * *

  Gabe: Does “catdoor” count as a word?

  * * *

  Arden: There is no universe in which “cat door” is a word. It is two words. You sneak. :)

  * * *

  Gabe: New words are made all the time. You never know. Let me try to play it.

  * * *

  And I try, but of course the game rejects
me.

  * * *

  Gabe: Fine, you were right. But I have other words to make. TREAT.

  * * *

  She plays another word quickly.

  * * *

  Arden: WRIST.

  * * *

  That makes me think of one thing only. And it’s not a friendly thing.

  * * *

  Gabe: By the way, did you like having your wrists pinned above your head in the elevator?

  * * *

  Arden: I think you know the answer to that.

  * * *

  Gabe: I think I do. And I hope you know the answer to the corollary.

  * * *

  Arden: The corollary being whether you liked it?

  * * *

  Gabe: Yes.

  * * *

  Arden: I do know the answer. You liked it.

  * * *

  Gabe: No, I fucking loved it.

  * * *

  Arden: Me too.

  * * *

  I form another word, using the S in wrist.

  * * *

  Gabe: STRIP.

  * * *

  Arden: Are you trying to tell me something?

  * * *

  Gabe: I believe I am.

  * * *

  Yep. I’m not following my dad’s advice at all. I’m not being friendly in the least. But then again, I want her to see me as more than a friend. And she’s clearly playing along.

  She takes her turn, playing off the T in STRIP.

  * * *

  Arden: TEA.

  * * *

  As I stare at her letters, another note from her pops up.

  * * *

  Arden: I don’t have an S or an E. But I think you get my meaning. The word I want to form is TEASE.

  * * *

  Gabe: I do get your meaning. And I like your meaning. Are you still game for it?

  * * *

  Arden: Yes, and I promised you dinner and coconut bars.

  * * *

  I want the dinner, I want the coconut bars, I want the apron, I want the striptease, and I want her. All of her. At the end of her research project, I don’t want to be in the friend zone anymore. I want to be in the everything zone, and perhaps I’ll find my way there when her clothes come off.

  * * *

  Gabe: Name the time and place, and what I can bring to the dinner.

  * * *

  Arden: Are you off tomorrow night?

  * * *

  Gabe: Till midnight. Graveyard shift calls my name.

  * * *

  Arden: Can you be here at seven?

  * * *

  Gabe: What should I bring?

  * * *

  Arden: You.

  * * *

  It’s only a text. I can’t read any emotion into it. But I swear the way she writes that one word lights a fire inside me.

  30

  Arden

  Vanessa implores me with Puss-in-Boots eyes as we stand outside Happy Days. “Promise me something, Arden.”

  “What is it?”

  She grabs my hands, grips my fingers tight. “Whatever I say in there, whatever I do, don’t let me buy anything.”

  Laughing, I answer, “I promise.”

  She issues a command. “Solemnly swear.”

  Letting go of hers, I raise my right hand. “I swear I will hold you back, just as I swear the book is always better than the movie, no matter what.”

  “Bless you. You’re a true friend.” She swings open the door to her favorite vintage shop in neighboring Hope Falls, where we’ve slipped away for a quick lunchtime shopping break. “This store has the best stuff. I snagged this dress last week on sale.” She sways her hips, showing off the white swing dress with its peach pattern. The ensemble is capped with sparkly orange shoes.

  “Wherever did you get those there’s-no-place-like-home heels?”

  “They’re my if-the-Wicked-Witch-of-the-East-liked-orange-instead-of-red ruby slippers.” She gestures to the heels. “Also, I found them online after an hour of bargain hunting for incredible shoes.”

  That’s her favorite pastime, and she excels at it.

  We head into the shop, and I’m swimming in a sea of retro style. Tea-length dresses, flouncy skirts, twinsets, and so many patterns: light-blue dresses bursting with cherry designs; rockabilly skirts made of pink-and-white gingham; and blouses with flamingo designs, checked prints, and embroidered pineapples.

  “Gah, I want it all,” Vanessa whispers, making grabby hands at the clothing treasures.

  I clasp her wrists. “Shhh. It’s going to be okay. We mustn’t let you short circuit.”

  She wriggles away, her arms shooting out robotically as she walks, trance-like, to a mint-green dress with a typewriter-key pattern across the bodice. Next to it is a skirt with cartoonish images of books on it.

  I yank her over to me, spinning her around. “You made me promise to make you resist.”

  “Resistance is futile. I can’t do it.” She throws one hand on her forehead as if she’s fainting.

  I relent, since I know the trick to keeping her on track. “Fine, get the dress.”

  She snaps me a look. “You’re an enabler.”

  I gesture to my face. “Then enable me instead.”

  She nods crisply, snapping out of it, refocusing on her shopping mission. “You’re right. I’m a personal shopper today,” she says, as if it’s a mantra she needs to remind herself of. Mission accomplished. “Do you want that green skirt?”

  I laugh. “It’s adorable, but today we are here for an apron.”

  “Right. Let me find you a sexy apron, then.”

  We head to a rack near the dressing rooms, where Vanessa sorts through short aprons and cute aprons and boob-boosting aprons.

  I touch a satiny red one then the air, making a sizzling sound. “Hot damn.”

  “Aprons are the new lingerie.”

  “You’re telling me.” I point to one that has a heart-shaped neckline.

  “That’s hella sexy.” She quirks an eyebrow. “And I bet looking that sexy will make you feel hella sexy. So how exactly are you going to answer the door like that and not want to make hot fireman babies with him?”

  “It’s just practice,” I insist, since I need the reminder. “All we’re doing is practice.”

  She hums, seemingly unconvinced. “You know what they say about practice.”

  “Practice makes perfect?”

  “No. They say practicing answering the door in a sexy apron leads to . . .” She mimes a drumroll. “Sex.”

  “I don’t think that’s a saying.”

  “But it should be. Especially in your case.” A note of warning sounds in her tone.

  “It’ll be fine. We’re committed to friendship first,” I say, trying to stay strong.

  But inside, I wonder briefly if she’s right. Each day I do want more and more with Gabe. Every time I see him, the longing grows more intense, the desire stronger. But our friendship matters too much to risk simply for dumb, pesky hormones.

  I want to believe it’s merely hormones at play.

  Trouble is, I can’t quite buy that line of reasoning anymore. Try as I might, when my logical brain feeds that to me, my heart seems to stick out its tongue at my head then laugh.

  Because my heart, my God, it somersaults when he’s near me. It does that shimmy shimmy bang bang, even when I think of him and who he is as a man. The way he takes care of his pops, of the owl, his friends, and all the people he doesn’t know—the strangers he helps every day. How he gives his mom books and makes time for dinner with his parents. They say you can learn all you need to know about a man from how he treats his mom, and Gabe treats Mama Harrison with love, respect, and devotion.

  All the chambers in my heart are hammering right now.

  And I need to be careful because today is about aprons and research and fantasies. It’s not about silly dreams that can’t come true.

  Dreams I don’t entirely understand.

  I shove them
aside, kicking them to a compartment in the back of my mind.

  “Ooh! This one!” Vanessa thrusts a black apron in my direction. The little skirt is covered in tiny white dots, and the neckline sports a soft fuchsia bow. “It’s hot—covers the boobs, and a little bit of leg—and it’s so very you.” She presses it against me. “You’re going to look delectable.”

  I turn to the mirror, loving what I see. “It is indeed hella sexy.”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “Also, listen. Maybe you should consider whether there’s something more happening between the two of you. Don’t you think?”

  “He’s not into me like that.”

  She shoots me a steely stare. “But are you? Are you like that? Are you liking this pretend thing?”

  So much.

  I like it so much I can’t jam all these feelings inside me. They’re bursting, jostling to break free. I sweep my gaze side to side, then whisper, “Yesterday, he pinned my arms above my head in an elevator. Pressed his body against mine. Bit my neck.”