Until recently.
Because for reasons unknown, Dexter was suddenly everywhere.
Two weeks ago, he’d jogged up my street and had paused to chat with my neighbor, wiping sweat from his brow with the hemof his tee while I’d stood helplessly in my driveway, fumbling with my keys. Then, get this—he’d waved to me.Me.As if that were something we did. Mrs. Abrams was standing right there, so I couldn’t be rude. I’d returned the gesture and quickly retreated.
But it was only the start.
I’d spotted Dexter in the produce section at the market the next day, peeking at me over a mountain of apples. The fact that he’d come so close without detection indicated a deliberate move…as if he’d sneaked up on me purposefully. He’d waved again and disappeared.
Last week, Dexter had pulled into the gas station after me. It was probably just a coincidence, but I’d checked the gauge on my bike and decided I could go a few more miles without filling up. Anything to avoid another waving situation.
And now, Dexter had mysteriously invaded my workspace armed with donuts for the third time this week—no one knew why.
But complimentary donuts never went to waste at the mill. The spooky part was that he didn’t leave the box at the main office with Layla or Emily. No…Dexter personally brought them into the warehouse, where dozens of men and women in full gear treated newly cut logs.
I couldn’t believe no one had yelled at him and told him to get out. It wasn’t a safe environment for an outsider. But no, this was Dexter. Someone gave him a hard hat, offered him a cup of terrible coffee, and thanked him for his generosity. I’d witnessed the whole exchange when I’d mistakenly come in from the lumber yard to partake of a donut, thinking Dexter would be long gone, only to find him holding court with a bunch of rough-bearded men in plaid as if they were old buddies.
Needless to say, I’d gone without the fritter. Two days later, he’d returned. I’d waited even longer, but it was the same story. Dexter the movie star surrounded by my coworkers. And today, he was here again.
Something was going on, and I had a bad feeling it was about that kiss.
It was months ago, but Dexter must have noticed me on the roof, thought I’d seen him stick his tongue down the policeman’s throat, and was worried I might out them.Huh.It was a delayed reaction, but it was the only logical explanation for all this…stalking.
I wasn’t sure how to confront someone about a potentially delicate matter like this…or if I should bother. Maybe I was wrong.
Or maybe I was right.
Either way, I couldn’t avoid the donut man anymore. He was driving me nuts.
I removed my gloves, ear plugs, and safety goggles and headed into the mill’s main warehouse.
For someone who spent his days in the yard or in the field with felled trees that once scraped the sky, the contrasting clatter of heavy machinery in the warehouse was jarring. Scaffolding and metal ladders lined the perimeter while forklifts and six specialized workstations anchored the main area. An old Eagles song was piping through the speaker system, which meant Ted had control of the tunes.
I strode by the shelves of lumber arranged from floor to ceiling according to type, size, and stage of treatment, and stopped in my tracks at the sight of Dexter in a hard hat, licking icing from his fingers like one of the crew. Like he belonged here.
What the fuck was he doing?
Lyle held up an apple fritter and motioned for me to join the impromptu party. As established, I didn’t like crowds, but I had no choice. I had to get to the bottom of this.
“Thank you,” I muttered, taking the fritter and a napkin.
I bit into it and nearly let out an orgasmic groan of approval. These things were other-worldly delicious. Crispy outside, light and fluffy inside with chunks of sweet apple, and covered in the perfect amount of icing. Not too much, not too little.
It was so good that I might have closed my eyes for a beat. When I resurfaced, Dexter was staring at me intently.
“You like fritters?” he asked, sidling close.
Ding ding ding ding.
Ja, hedefinitelywanted something.
I stepped aside, nodding brusquely. “Yes.”
“Me too. They’re one of my favorites, actually. My family owned an apple orchard in Michigan years ago. My brother and I used to climb trees and pluck fruit and afterward, we’d get treated to cider and fritters for a job well done. We didn’t realize till we were older that fancy machines did the real work.” Dexter chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at a far-off memory. “Apple cider always reminds me of simpler times and fritters are right up there with french fries in my book.”
Mine too, I thought, charmed in spite of myself. I had a similar story…different place. My family owned a farm in Sweden. We’d spent many summer days picking blueberries, lingonberries, and wild strawberries. Our hands and mouths had been stained in blues and reds, our knees scraped from kneeling on the ground.
Of course I didn’t share any of that.