He looked at her as if drinking in her words, longing to believe her. Then, softly, “You are so beautiful.”
Oh, she hadn’t expected that. Or the way he slid his hand around her neck, leaned down, and kissed her.
Right there, in front of his family.
When he let her go, he surrendered a smile. “When can I see you next?”
Tomorrow? She held that word in. “Call me.”
“Don’t just show up on the Footstep of Heaven doorstep?”
She smiled as he took her hand again, headed down the street. In the distance, thunder began to roll once more.
“Maybe it’ll rain after all.” She glanced up to see two figures at the gate. She recognized Claire and then . . . Jensen Atwood?
Yes. Jensen was unloading Claire’s portable keyboard from his truck parked in front of the house, now carrying it toward her apartment.
And then, to Ivy’s surprise, she heard, “What’s he doing there?”
Darek was looking at Jensen, his expression dark. He let go of her hand. “What is Jensen Atwood doing at your house?”
She stared at him, his tone so abrupt, so angry. “What? I—”
“Do you know him?”
“Why are you yelling at me?” She took a step away from him, suddenly seeing the man from the auction, angry and rude.
He must have seen her face, for he cringed and looked away, his voice falling. “Sorry, I . . . You’re right. I just . . .” He looked back down the street, where Jensen was returning to his truck. “Who is your roommate?”
“I don’t have one. I live behind the house in the garage apartment. But Claire Gibson lives above the bookstore.”
“Claire.” He shook his head, his voice going softer. “I should have known.”
“Should have known what?”
He drew in a long breath, turned back to her. “Nothing.” He reached out and touched her hand. “I’m sorry. I just . . . Jensen Atwood brings out the worst in me.”
“Why? Who is he to you?”
“It’s a long story, for another time. I don’t want it to wreck our night. Let’s just say that if there is anyone you should stay away from in this town, it’s Jensen Atwood.”
“You used to say that about you.” She tried a smile.
Darek gave a harsh chuckle. “I did, didn’t I?” But his laugh died. “I actually mean it about Jensen.”
His words slid inside, settled under her skin like a burr. “Why do you hate him so much?”
“Because he stole my life from me.”
She frowned, but he leaned close to kiss her on the cheek. “I’ll call you.”
Then he dashed across the street to where his family waited in their Caravan. Casper roared off on his motorcycle.
And Ivy stood there on the sidewalk, an icy hand around her heart.
How did Darek know Jensen Atwood?
SHE COULD AT LEAST make him a sandwich. Claire peeked out the window to where Jensen was building the long ramp that would replace the steps to the backyard. True to his word, he’d arrived about an hour ago, unloaded wood and power tools from his truck, and begun work as if she wasn’t even in the house.
As if he didn’t need her.
And maybe he didn’t because while she worked a double shift at Pierre’s yesterday, he’d already modified the front stoop. A tiny ramp sloped from the ground to the house, peaked at a new landing, then led into the entryway.
Or maybe he was simply used to working alone, used to being—or trying to be—invisible.
Not that people wouldn’t notice him, in his baseball cap, a button-down shirt cut off at the arms—threads loose where the sleeves should be—and a pair of ripped and faded blue jeans perfectly seasoned for his physique. He clomped around in work boots like a real carpenter and even wore one of those leather tool belts, a square pencil behind his ear, which looked like it might be getting sunburned.
In fact, the man looked like he’d walked off an L.L. Bean cover.
Yeah, real inconspicuous.
She’d popped her head out once and offered him a glass of water—just to be polite—but he’d waved her away.
He’d smiled, though, as he did it, and it conjured up the memory of him driving her home after the gig. Normally she would have let Kyle drive her home—he usually picked her up to help with her equipment—but with Jensen offering . . .
You have a beautiful voice.
Oh, she shouldn’t have let that go to her head quite so easily.
She needed to remember exactly why she hadn’t talked to him for three years. And it wasn’t because he’d caused an accident that took Felicity’s life.
No, that she blamed on Felicity.
Not that Jensen shouldn’t be blamed for his part in that terrible evening. The fight that caused Felicity to don her running shoes and take off.