A table at the back of the room holds pencil sketches of buildings scattered about. I flip through them until I come across the blue, grid-lined paper of architectural plans.

  I take a quick peek, and as I expected, it’s the art studio she wants to build on her property. I have no clue what that exactly means, but I know she needs a driveway to it.

  “How many eggs do you want?” Tillie calls out.

  “Four,” I say as I study the proposed driveway. She could most definitely have her existing one cut across her lawn and through the wooded portion of her property to get to where the studio would be, but it would be messy. She’d lose most of her grassy yard area, and I imagine she doesn’t want traffic driving so close to her house.

  Just like I don’t want it driving so close to my backyard.

  Sighing, I turn from the table and look at more of her paintings stacked in a large plastic bin. These are oils, and while her skills are just as good, they don’t evoke feelings the way the watercolors do. It’s weird, because the landscapes are incredibly realistic, but they’re missing the whimsical quality that is inherently Tillie Marshall.

  I return to the kitchen as Tillie scoops scrambled eggs on a plate already laden with bacon and toast. She smiles as she nods to a cupboard. “You can grab forks from that drawer.”

  “Sure.” I slide it out and nab utensils. “Your art is incredible.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she replies, almost bashfully. “No matter how many pieces I complete, I never really know if they’re any good. Maybe that’s an artist thing. My dad was like that with his paintings.”

  I meet Tillie at the kitchen table, and we sit to eat. After a bite of bacon, I say, “I saw the plans for the art studio.”

  I hadn’t realized how open her expression had been prior to me saying that, but it clouds over, and her gaze drops to her plate as she stabs at some eggs.

  “What exactly will the art studio be?” I press. “Will it be a retail space for you to sell your art in lieu of selling online?”

  Her face lifts, her expression oddly blank. “I don’t think we should talk about this because of the pending lawsuit.”

  “You don’t?” I’m incredibly curious why she wouldn’t want to talk about it. Tillie isn’t the type to back down from something, and I’ve been half expecting her to use this new “friendship with benefits” relationship as a gateway to talk about the trees.

  To at least try to compromise.

  Not that I would, but I wouldn’t blame her for trying.

  “I think,” she says, and I can tell she’s carefully choosing her words, “that whatever this is we have, there’s an expiration date.”

  Well, damn… not sure how that makes me feel. “Is that so?”

  “You know it is,” she says softly. “Our court date is set for August 10. We both want very different outcomes. One of us is going to win, and the other is going to be hurt in some fashion. It’s inevitable. My suggestion is that we simply acknowledge that truth and have fun over the next few weeks as consenting adults who recognize this for what it is.”

  “And that is?”

  “Sex,” she replies simply.

  I cock an eyebrow at her.

  “Okay, very good sex.”

  I stare at her, not saying a word.

  “Fine,” she grumbles. “Phenomenal sex. The best ever. But you and I both know it’s nothing more than that. You came here for peace and to get away. Those goals haven’t changed. I’m focused on my art studio, and that’s not going to change. So let’s be mature about it, ride this wave without talking about the trees or the lawsuit, and when it comes time to part, we’ll do so without a backward glance.”

  She’s fucking serious. I’m actually stunned she’s proposing this arrangement because Tillie is about as far from a sex-only-relationship type as anyone I’ve ever met. She’s sweet and kind, a dreamer to the core. Nothing about what we are now or what we will be in the coming weeks would make sense based on how she lives her orderly life. I’m a fucking wrecking ball swinging through her world, and she’s willing to get smashed to have a few weeks of fun.

  It makes no sense to me at all, and frankly, it rubs me a little that I’m not the one establishing the ground rules for a sex-only relationship. I’m the one who should be reminding her that’s all I’ve got to offer, but she beat me to it.

  “Let me get this straight,” I ask, leaning toward her slightly. “We have what’s essentially a friends-with-benefits relationship for the next three weeks until the court date?”

  “That’s the gist of it. I mean, I know we’re trying to be friends, but we both know that’s not going to survive the court’s decision because one of us is going to lose something very important, and it will be the other person’s fault.”

  Fuck… why does it feel like something just stabbed me through the heart?

  I brush the feeling aside. I’ve survived the last few months keeping shit like that at bay by simply ignoring it.

  “Well, okay… I’m in,” I say with a smile. I pick up another slice of bacon and bite into it.

  Something flickers over her face, an emotion I can’t quite place, but it’s gone before I can study it. Tillie smiles in return. “We have a game plan.” She holds her coffee cup out in toast and I take mine to tap against hers. “To great sex and a clean break at the end.”

  Another stabbing cramp in my chest, but I maintain my smile. “I’ll drink to that.”

  We sip our coffees and return to breakfast. But I need to clarify something. “Is this only sex?”

  Tillie’s eyebrows rise. “You know… I’m not sure. I mean, I had fun at the music festival last night.”

  “And breakfast together is nice,” I point out.

  “And we’ve learned to be civil to each other,” she deadpans. “I suppose it could be a tiny bit more than just sex.”

  Chuckling, I bump my knee against hers under the table. “I have an idea… you said you wanted to put some of your mother’s art out on the trails. I’d be glad to help you do that if you want.”

  Her eyes light up, and she beams, loosening my chest a bit. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. As long as we can have sex after so we keep this focused more on the sex than the friendship.”

  Tillie snickers.

  “Want to do it today?” I ask.

  “We can get started.” She picks up another piece of bacon and waves it. “I have a lot of her pieces, and some need to be anchored. I’ll need to make a trip to the hardware store.”

  “I happen to have a truck,” I point out, and she laughs.

  She has an amazing laugh, and it makes me smile.

  Nothing has made me feel so light in so fucking long, and the thought of losing it already bothers me.

  CHAPTER 18

  Tillie

  “Are you sure?” I ask Teddy as I pace my hallway.

  “I’m sure,” he replies. “The easement language is not exclusive to the type of zoning, which means there’s a presumption it’s inclusive of everything.”

  “Which means I’ll be able to have my driveway,” I breathe out.

  “Again, I can’t guarantee anything, but Tillie… I really think we’re going to win this.”

  Strange how this should be a relief, but all I feel is stressed by this knowledge, because I think some crazy part of me was hoping Coen and I truly wouldn’t have an expiration date. If I win this, it means he loses, and we’re definitely done.

  Just as we’d be done if he won.

  Ugh, there’s no winning for anyone.

  “Thanks for calling, Teddy,” I say. “I appreciate the work.”

  “You don’t sound overly happy,” he says tentatively. “I swear I researched this and crossed all my t’s and dotted my i’s.”

  “I’m happy. It’s great news.”

  “Just making sure,” he says. “You threatened me with malpractice.”

  “I was upset,” I assure him. “Truthfully… I’m happy.”

  A horn honks from my driveway, and a tremor of excitement runs through me. “Listen, Teddy… I have to go. Thank you so much for calling.”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, bye,” I say even as I’m disconnecting the call.

  I run to my door and open it. Holding up my index finger, I silently tell Coen to wait a sec and then turn to run back inside.

  This is me… often late, usually running around trying to grab all my stuff, and forever making people wait on me.

  We’re headed to the county fair.

  As friends, of course, and this is most certainly not a date. Just something fun to do on a weekend, but it won’t be as fun as what we’ll do at my house after the fair tonight.

  It’s been a week since we agreed to have a fun, no-strings involvement until the court date.

  I thought it might mean we’d hook up a few times, but in actuality, we’ve been together every night since then. Always at my house.

  We’ve spent time together out of bed, him helping me set up my mom’s sculptures along the trails. But for the most part, our days are our own. My painting pretty much follows a standard work week between completing the actual art, scanning high-resolution images, using digital methods of touch-up, and then uploading to retail sites for purchase. I also have to do some social media marketing and administrative work keeping track of sales. On top of that, I always have at least one commission going, which takes far longer than the art I sell online.

  And once a week, I teach painting in the dance hall portion of the VFW to anyone who wants to attend. It’s a free class and I provide the supplies, but I love helping people tap into their artistic abilities.

  For tonight’s outing, I had no intention of going with Coen, but he texted me a few hours ago, wanting to know if he could come over tonight. I mean, it was a given I’d say yes, just like I have every other night. The man’s ability to make me commune with the heavens isn’t something I’m going to pass up, especially since we’re on borrowed time.

  His text delivered delicious chills. I’ve been wondering how many times I can make you come in one night. Let’s find out. Be there at seven and I’ll bring a pizza?

  I stared at it forever. I’ve never had a man talk like that to me, and it makes me sad that my sex life was so lacking.

  I’ll absolutely miss him when this is over.

  I texted back my regrets. Sorry. I’m going to the county fair tonight.

  I left it at that. I didn’t want to invite him, because I didn’t want to get rejected. The times we’ve hung out together outside of the bedroom have been awesome. During the hours we spent setting up my mom’s sculptures, I mostly kept up running chatter about benign topics. Coen was engaging and at times funny. I didn’t see the asshole I know he can be.

  It made me wonder if he could be more, but deep down, I’m afraid he can’t. I’ll never forget his decree that he’s not a nice man, and I’m always waiting for that guy to reappear.

  I keep telling myself it’s absolutely best we keep this casual, fun, and low-key. I don’t need more.

  Which made me a bit of a liar when my heart zinged with happiness when he replied with: Mind if I tag along? I’m a sucker for funnel cake, and I’ll buy you one, too.

  A guy after my own heart.

  Still, I played it cool. Of course I don’t mind. Want to meet there?

  His reply made my pulse hum. I’ll pick you up at seven.

  Not wanting to read anything into it, because I know my romantic heart will if I’m not careful, I set a boundary. Just honk when you pull up.

  The message was clear. Don’t come to the door to get me. This isn’t a date. Just two people—friends—sharing a ride to the fair.

  He responded with a thumbs-up, and now, here he is.

  Slinging my cross-body bag on, I shove my phone and fifty dollars in cash inside. I grab my keys and hurry out, locking the door behind me.

  The sun has already set, but it’s still light enough outside that I can see Coen through the truck windshield. He watches me as I make my way to the passenger side.

  When I open the door to climb up, he says, “Nice dress.”

  Smiling, I slide onto the seat. “Thanks. It has pockets.”

  “And that’s important?”

  Snickering, I explain the age-old joke that a dress is only perfect if it has pockets. That pockets are of the utmost importance.

  Coen’s eyes shift to the skirt portion, and he nods. “You know that might blow up in the wind on some of the rides. Not sure I want you flashing your panties to everyone.”

  I try not to be warmed by a statement that could be considered proprietary. Instead, I flip up the bottom of my dress to reveal the secret underneath. “In addition to pockets, this dress has built-in shorts. Cool, huh?”

  His laughter comes out in a short bark as he reverses, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard true laughter from him. Up until now, it’s been more and more smiles, but this is heartfelt laughter. Totally spontaneous and unfiltered, and it lights up his face in a way that takes my breath away.

  We lapse into easy conversation on the way to the fairgrounds. Coen tells me about his most recent endeavor learning how to fly-fish and a lesson he had this morning. I tell him about cleaning out my refrigerator.

  Because it’s Saturday night, we actually have to stand in line for tickets. At the booth, I pull out my cash, but Coen pushes money at the attendant and buys not only our entry passes but a wad of ride tickets.

  “Here,” I say, shoving a twenty-dollar bill at him.

  “My treat,” he replies casually, and we walk through the double chain-link gated fence into the Potter County Fair.

  The midway is my favorite spot—I love all the silly games and the carnival food. On the perimeter, the rickety rides are lined up like probable death traps, but you simply must do them.

  We agree to do rides first and food later, followed by games.

  Coen and I hit the Zipper, and I can’t help but scream as our cage flips end over end while the whole zipper rotates. I stagger slightly when we get off, both of us laughing. Coen steadies me with a hand to the elbow until we get a few paces away from the ride but then lets me go.

  On the way to the Gravitron, we meet up with Erica and Hank. From there, we ride the Tilt-A-Whirl twice, since it’s Erica’s favorite.

  Tonight, Coen makes no effort to disguise himself the way he has before. We don’t talk about his hockey career because we don’t talk about anything personal. That’s crossing lines that are too tenuous.

  But I know from what I’ve read he was not on good terms with the team when he was suspended, and him hiding out here in the mountains of western Pennsylvania is telling. The mere fact he doesn’t want privacy trees cut down speaks of a man who doesn’t want to interact with anyone.

  Yet tonight, he is approached by a few people, and while he’s not quite gracious, he acquiesces to a few photos with fans.

  Of course, Erica, Hank, and I stand back and elbow each other, as it’s definitely cool to be hanging out with someone famous. But then we’ll head for another ride and once again, Coen will just be a regular guy.

  My phone dings, and I pull it out of my bag, reading a text from Ann Marie. At the House of Mirrors.

  Coming, I text back and we all head that way.

  I’m pleased to see Xander with Ann Marie. They’ve gone out on a few dates, but this trip to the fair was a last-minute thing. Ann Marie was fretting that perhaps he wasn’t really interested, but I think he is.

  We line up to go into the building with a bazillion mirrors designed to contort and disorient. Erica, Ann Marie, and I stand together talking, while the guys stand behind us doing the same. Coen is engaged with Hank and Xander about fishing, which, by all appearances, might become a favorite hobby.

  Ann Marie nudges me and whispers. “Are you on a date with him?”

  I shake my head as we inch forward in the line. “We’re just friends.”

  “Who have sex,” she whispers back.

  Erica snickers and glances over her shoulder at the men, then back to me. “Well, regardless of whatever you two are, you’re the most envied woman in these fairgrounds.”

  I snort at her. “Yeah, right.”

  “No, seriously,” Erica says.

  Ann Marie chimes in. “Don’t you see the stares you’re getting?”

  Frowning, I glance around, but I don’t see anyone looking at us. “No one’s staring.”

  “Maybe not now,” Ann Marie explains. “But as you two were walking this way, every woman you passed was staring at Coen in open lust and at you with open jealousy.”

  “Really?” I don’t see why. We’re clearly not on a date. We don’t touch each other. We’re not affectionate. I mean, sure… we’re walking side by side and talking and laughing, and that one time he steadied me coming off the Zipper.

  But surely, anyone who looks at me and looks at Coen, side by side, can see we’re not dating. We’re way too mismatched.

  Except in bed, I muse.

  We reach the entrance, and Hank and Xander push past me to pair up with their dates. Xander reaches down and threads his fingers through Ann Marie’s, and my heart sighs in satisfaction for her. Hank puts his arm around Erica’s waist and whispers something to her. She laughs and bumps her hip against his. Ten bucks says it was dirty.

  And Coen and I just stand beside each other, not touching, as he hands the carny our tickets.

  We enter the building, the first panel of reflective pieces making both Coen and I look like round balls with tiny heads. We bust out laughing, and before I know it, he’s taking my hand and pulling me to a hallway that leads to the right. I’m not sure where my friends went, but I follow along behind Coen as we enter a maze of mirrors.

  His hand engulfs mine, leaving no room for me to pull away. We check ourselves out in the mirrors, our bodies contorted into weird shapes. Most are funny; some are downright scary.

  But it’s just me and Coen, and he has no fear in laughing at himself or me.

  In one room, he moves behind me with his hands on my hips. Our necks elongate in the reflection, and when he tips his head to kiss the side of my neck, his neck curves like it’s made of rubber. I laugh so hard I can’t stop. Coen turns me in his arms, presses his mouth to mine, and suddenly I’m not laughing anymore.