It’s a wall I’m not ready to let go of. Not sure I ever will be. I can meet Tillie at her house, at my house, on the trails, or in town. But I want that strand of trees between us because it allows me to stay removed when I need to be.

  I’m well aware the original game plan was to stay removed from everyone all the time.

  Tillie’s changed that, no doubt.

  But I’m not sure I can go all in with her. Not sure I can go all in with any sort of normal life again.

  Luckily, it’s a decision I don’t have to make right now. As for Tillie, the court will decide, and that’s a lot like rolling the dice with her.

  Still seems safer than putting myself out there and potentially making the wrong decision.

  CHAPTER 20

  Tillie

  This feels weird… going to Coen’s house. I’ve never been inside his place.

  I’m familiar with the back of his house from the easement border all the way up to his deck, which I covered with peanuts and birdseed almost three weeks ago.

  That was under cover of night, though, so I didn’t get many details. I’ve been on his front porch and had a close-up view of that, as well as the front door when he slammed it in my face.

  I’ve definitely been able to study his trees, though. Namely, when he pinned me up against one and performed the best oral sex in the history of oral sex. My face heats at the memory, equal parts embarrassment and desire.

  I knock on the front door, a six-pack of beer in my other hand. My stomach has the jitters because this feels more like a date than anything we’ve done so far. I don’t know why. We’ve had meals together. We’ve had sex—lots and lots of sex—at my house. We’ve gone places together.

  But something about taking my invitation to grill dinner at my house, which has really been the designated hookup zone, and moving it to his with the demand I bring my pillow makes it more intimate.

  “Door’s open,” I hear him call out, so I twist the knob and enter.

  The cabin is gorgeous, with timbered walls, wide plank flooring, and vaulted ceilings. The furniture is heavy and masculine, but it fits in the huge open space. A massive fireplace takes up most of one wall, and I’ll bet it’s perfect to sit before on cold nights and watch the snow fall through the floor-to-ceiling windows flanking the hearth.

  It’s an open floor plan, so I immediately see Coen in the kitchen opening a box of frozen burgers. I wrinkle my nose because I was going to make handmade patties with minced onion and spices, but this is his show.

  “Brought beer,” I say as I walk into the kitchen.

  He glances up at me as he works at the box, then nods toward the fridge. “You can put them in there.”

  I frown. He seems off. While Coen isn’t the warmest or fuzziest guy, since we’ve been sleeping together, he’s always had a smile for me when we first see each other.

  Tonight he seems a bit reserved.

  I chalk it up to maybe he just had a bad day and move to the fridge to deposit the beer.

  “Fuck,” he growls and tosses the box onto the counter. “Why do they have to make these childproof?”

  I shrug off my purse, set it on the counter, and move to his side. I take the box, flip it over to the pull tab, and open the end.

  A frustrated sigh escapes him, and he mutters, “Figures.”

  He reaches for the box, but I twist my body, keeping it from him. “I’ll do this. Did you start the grill?”

  “No,” he says sullenly, eyes finally rising to meet mine. “Got sidetracked.”

  I nod toward the door. “Go get it started. I’ll open these and get everything else ready.”

  “There’s nothing else,” he says. “I only got buns.”

  “Condiments?”

  “Ketchup and mustard are all I have.”

  “That’s good enough,” I assure him.

  Without another word, he heads onto the deck, and I’m left to puzzle out this bizarre behavior. It’s not quite reminiscent of our first few meetings because he was an all-out asshole then.

  But I sense something brewing underneath, and I’m feeling a bit on eggshells that he might explode.

  Glancing out the back door to the deck, I see the grill has been lit. Coen is now sitting in a chair, staring out at his backyard. I pull open the plastic covering and set the burgers on the counter. Nothing else to do until the grill heats up.

  Grabbing two beers from the fridge, I follow him out onto the deck. Just before walking into his home tonight, I would’ve felt comfortable enough to hand Coen his beer with a teasing remark or sexual innuendo. And it probably would’ve ended with him pulling me into his lap.

  But his posture and the fact he doesn’t even look up at me when I reach his side has me poised and ready to deflect an attack.

  “Here you go,” I say, holding out the beer.

  He grabs it, twists off the cap, and mutters, “Thanks.”

  I don’t sit but move to the edge of the deck and lean against the rail. “Your backyard’s coming along nicely. The koi pond looks great.”

  I knew he’d worked on cleaning it out and patching it up. It’s filled with water, the fountain is running, and all it needs now is fish.

  Coen doesn’t respond.

  Turning to face him, I ask, “Are you okay?”

  He blinks in surprise. “Yeah, why?”

  “Because you’re quiet and brooding and acting weird. I feel like if I say the wrong thing, you might explode.”

  It’s not a good sign that Coen’s jaw sets into a hard line. “If I make you uncomfortable, you don’t have to stay.”

  And that’s all he needs to say for me to judge the situation. “I’m out of here.”

  I put my beer on the handrail and head for the back door, going in to grab my purse, my keys, and my dignity. I don’t need this shit.

  I don’t even make it a few feet before he’s up and out of the chair, stepping right into my path. His expression is thunderous. “You’re just going to leave… like that?”

  Ordinarily, I would laugh at someone who would say something so ridiculous. “You told me to leave if I was uncomfortable. I’m distinctly uncomfortable.”

  “Well, then fuck you and your tender sensibilities,” he snarls.

  “No, fuck you,” I snarl right back at him as I barrel past. I’m pissed, and I hate that my eyes sting with the threat of tears because that just plain hurt my feelings.

  Before I reach the door, Coen’s got my wrist in his hand, pulling me to a stop. “Wait, Tillie. I’m sorry.”

  I jerk out of his hold, and he lets go without hesitation. His expression is remorseful, but I see anger brewing under the surface.

  “What is wrong with you?” I repeat, my tone as calm as I can make it. My instincts say to flee.

  Coen pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and sucks in a long breath before immediately releasing it. When his eyes open, I see he’s under control. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I told you I’m an asshole.”

  “No,” I say sharply, causing him to blink in surprise. “That’s not who you are. It’s a behavior you’ve developed to avoid what’s really going on.”

  “How do you know I’ve not always been an asshole?” he asks.

  “Because I googled you. I’ve read enough to know that you were the opposite of an asshole before the crash. Most described you as outgoing, funny, a little cocky, but people loved you.”

  Coen scoffs and turns from me, moving to the deck rail. His back is to me as he looks out over his yard. He has a tin bucket there I hadn’t noticed, and he pulls a few peanuts out of it.

  I wait for him to crack them open to eat—perhaps he’s gathering his thoughts—but instead he calls out, “Chip… come and get it.”

  My eyebrows knit in confusion. Maybe he’s gone off the deep end.

  And then to my shock, a chipmunk scampers up the deck steps, runs right to Coen, and climbs up his jeans.

  Climbs. Up. His. Jeans.

  My jaw drops as the tiny critter runs up over the back of Coen’s T-shirt and perches on his shoulder. Coen then cracks open the peanut and offers the kernels inside to the chipmunk, who stuffs them in his cheeks.

  “What in the hell?” I blurt.

  Coen turns to face me, cracking open another peanut. The chipmunk waits patiently, and when he’s handed the nuts, he stuffs them in his cheeks again. “This is Chip. My buddy.”

  “I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone,” I say, taking a tentative step toward them. The chipmunk’s whiskers twitch, but his eyes stay glued on Coen’s hands as he works open another shell.

  “This is a byproduct of your prank.” Coen opens one more peanut, and when the nuts are tucked into Chip’s cheeks, he leaps from Coen’s shoulder to the railing. From there he runs along its length, down the steps, and jumps out into the grass. I have to lean left to look past Coen so I can watch as Chip jets toward a large bush and disappears under it.

  I’m in absolute awe as I turn back to Coen. “Wow.”

  You’d think the interaction with the chipmunk and my befuddlement would be enough to get him to smile, but he looks as uptight as ever.

  “What happened between the text you sent inviting me here and now?”

  “Nothing happened, really.” Coen moves back to the rail and leans his forearms on it. I move beside him, angled so I can see his face. “My Realtor told me my condo is getting ready to be listed in Pittsburgh and it will sell fast. I’ve got to go collect the rest of my stuff.”

  “And you’re upset about it?” I inquire, needing to find the source of his angst since he’s not giving it up easy.

  “I don’t know,” he answers, turning his head to look at me. “I’m relieved it’s getting done and also doubtful this is the right move at the same time.”

  “Confusing,” I say.

  “Guess it’s made me introspective.”

  “It’s made you a dick,” I correct, and that elicits a slight smile. “But I understand it.”

  He holds my gaze a moment before letting his eyes drift back out over the yard. “Why didn’t you tell me you were building the art studio to give free lessons?”

  I’m not surprised by the question but by the accusation I hear in his tone. “Why should I have told you? It wouldn’t have changed your position on the trees.”

  “No, it wouldn’t have,” he says dully.

  It shouldn’t hurt to hear that, but it does. It means there really isn’t anything between us at all.

  And I thought I could handle that—a no-strings, short-term fling. But that was when we were having fun and I was getting smiles and spending time with him made me giddy.

  Now I just feel wary.

  “I think I’m going to go.”

  He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at me. Doesn’t twitch a muscle.

  Sadness sweeps through me, but it doesn’t compel me to stay. It motivates me to leave, and I turn once again for the door.

  “I used to be the type of person who could overcome anything,” he says with enough volume that shows he wants me to not only hear him but understand him.

  I turn back. “What do you mean?”

  Coen turns toward me, leaning one elbow on the rail. “I used to be the type who could overcome adversity, and that’s going back to my youngest days,” he says.

  I move beside him and mimic his body position. “Did you grow up in a bad environment?”

  Coen’s laugh is mirthless. “I don’t know. Some would say not since my parents are incredibly wealthy and well connected. I had everything I could ever dream of.”

  His words hang in the air, so I prompt, “Except…”

  “Except my parents’ love,” he says. “I was raised by nannies who were as cold and distant as my parents. They felt that raising a son meant giving him the best clothing, the finest food, and the most expensive education. The fanciest car when he turned sixteen, the exclusive sports prep schools. But that’s all they ever gave me.”

  I reach out and lay my hand over his. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine that. It’s the complete opposite of what I had. We didn’t have a lot of money, but my parents showered me with love and devotion.”

  “I’d have given anything to have your life,” he says. “Back when I was a kid. As an adult, what’s done is done. But the point is, despite such a cold environment growing up, I didn’t let that make me into the image of my parents. I was inclusive, had a strong group of friends in the youth hockey world, and plenty of my friends’ moms became my surrogate moms. I think I turned into a good man, despite not having good role models at home.”

  I think about all the articles I’ve read about Coen, and it tracks. By all accounts, he was a great guy, and he could’ve been something vastly different based on his upbringing.

  “You are a good man,” I say.

  Coen’s expression turns bitter and haunted. “No, I’m not. I’m the worst kind of person, and if you knew what was best for you, you’d walk away right now.”

  “Maybe I will walk away,” I say, lifting my chin. “But not until I really understand what’s going on. The crash… that’s when things changed for you. At least from what I’ve been able to glean.”

  “Yes, the crash was horrific, and I lost friends. It’s the single-most traumatic thing that’s ever happened to me.” His words sound ominous, and a chill runs up my back. “I felt guilty for not being on that plane. I felt guilty for living. I feel guilty for being grateful that I’m still alive. But those are things I can look at rationally and understand that circumstances beyond my control made it so I wasn’t on the plane.”

  “Something else happened?”

  “When I tell you I’m not a good man, I’m not being dramatic. I’m telling you that I’ve been disloyal. I betrayed someone close to me. I’m the type who will hurt you and anyone who tries to get close me. There is nothing redeemable—”

  I throw myself at Coen, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him. Just to get him to shut up, because I can’t stand him talking that way about himself.

  He balks for only a second before he kisses me back. One hand cradles my head, the other cups my ass, pressing me close, and he kisses us both breathless.

  But he tears away, looking at me with wild eyes. “I don’t deserve to have this with you.”

  He releases me so suddenly, I stumble. Coen’s hands ball into fists, as if he’s restraining himself from reaching out to me.

  “Tell me,” I say firmly. “You need to unload whatever this is.”

  “You’ll hate me,” he promises.

  “I won’t,” I promise back. “Because I can already see that whatever it is you’ve done, you’re so remorseful for it, you’re willing to shut out the world and be left alone in your misery. I don’t know what it is, but you’ve already atoned, or you’re well on your way.”

  “You can’t know that. You can’t possibly understand if my sin is even forgivable.”

  I glare as I step back into him and poke him in the chest. “I can know that. You don’t give me enough credit, but I’m telling you, I’d never let a man do the things you’ve done to me if I didn’t think he had a good moral compass, that at his core, he’s decent. I believe that about you, even if you don’t.”

  Coen’s expression becomes tortured with indecision. I can see how much he wants to continue to hate himself with just a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe he could like himself again.

  I reach out, take him by the wrist, and I have to push my fingers against his to get him to open his hand. I put my palm against his and squeeze tight.

  He looks down at our union, a muscle in his jaw indicating the tight clench of his teeth. When his gaze lifts to mine, he looks defiant. “I let one of my teammates’ girlfriends give me a blow job.”

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shocked, not by the crude nature of what he said but by the absolute dishonest phrasing of his confession.

  “That’s not all there is to that story. You’re not telling me all of it.”

  “There’s no more to tell. All that matters is I let her do it. I wanted her to do it. I let it happen, knowing it was wrong.”

  “No,” I say adamantly, shaking my head. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “You don’t know me,” he growls.

  I squeeze his hand harder. “I know you wouldn’t do that to a friend. There’s more to the story. Were you drunk?”

  Coen blinks at me.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? You were drunk.”

  “Yes, but I knew what I was doing.”

  “Then there’s still more to the story,” I assert. “Tell me.”

  “There’s not.”

  “Tell me,” I demand. “You’ve come this far. Might as well tell it all and let me decide how to judge you.”

  Coen huffs in frustration and tries to pull his hand away. I don’t let go, so he takes his other hand and scrubs it through his hair. “I thought they’d broken up. She told me they had, and they hadn’t been dating long, anyway. It wasn’t serious, so—”

  “I knew it,” I say triumphantly. “I knew you couldn’t betray a friend.”

  “They weren’t broken up, though,” he says, and the pain in his voice hurts my heart.

  “She lied to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then it’s not your fault. That’s on her.”

  Coen shakes his head. “No, Tillie. When a man is with a woman, his friends don’t go there, not ever. It was wrong, even if they had been truly broken up.”

  I consider that a moment, and I see his point. “And that’s what’s bothering you? That’s the reason why you think you’re undeserving of good things? Why you think you’re a bad person?”

  “Yes, and the fact that I couldn’t make it right. The worst is that I couldn’t apologize.”

  Coen proceeds to tell me in detail how that night went down. I don’t really want the details of him being intimate with another woman, but it is some balm to know it wasn’t a great experience for him. That he committed a disloyal act for something that was decidedly lacking in reward. He shares how he resolved to tell his friend Kyle what happened, only to find out before the flight left that they were not in fact broken up. That the woman—Darcy—talked Coen into waiting to tell Kyle until after the team returned so as not to mess up his game. How Coen couldn’t get on the plane because he had a fever, so he agreed to wait.