Angel Smits - Addie Gets Her Man

He laughed, a deep, heavy sound that warmed her from the inside out. “And I’ll bet your dad, or one of those brothers, stood at the door making sure nothing went on, too.”

“Yeah.” She smiled at him. “My brother Wyatt.”

“You’re welcome.” He stood there, not moving for a long minute. Finally, he stepped back. “I’m just a couple blocks over. Have a great night, Addie.”

“You, too.” She wanted to say more. Wanted to know a whole lot more about him. The silence stretched out, awkward all of a sudden, full of expectation, until he resumed walking.

She watched until he reached the corner. He turned to wave before making that last turn. He was heading toward the street Mom used to live on. She couldn’t remember which of the houses, other than Mom’s, had been for sale recently. Of course, she hadn’t gone over there much.

Maybe that needed to change.

* * *

HIS HOUSE WAS dark when Marcus finally reached it. He’d have rather gone into Addie’s house, where he saw a light, inviting and warm, just inside that big front window. He made a mental note to leave a light on next time.

Next time? Next time he went to the coffee shop in the evening, he told himself. Nothing more than that.

Her house was similar to this one—the hazards of a planned development. Somehow, though, he liked it. For an instant, he pictured her. Moving around, locking the doors, checking the windows, closing everything up for the night.

Did she have a dog or a cat that’d run to greet her? Or was her house silent, like this one?

Shaking his head, he tried to cast thoughts of Addie out of his mind, but it wasn’t easy. Her comments, gestures and expressions were too strong. Despite his attraction to her, he couldn’t be interested in a relationship with anyone. Not now. Maybe never.

He had enough to worry about. Walking through the big house, he headed to the kitchen. He’d thought to grab a sandwich at the coffee shop, but hadn’t felt hungry. Nothing had looked good, so he’d settled for just the coffee. Now, surprisingly, he was hungry.

Tossing his backpack onto the kitchen table—covered with dozens of books—he headed to the counter. He hadn’t expected this room to become his makeshift office, but something about it drew him, made him feel comfortable.

A jar of peanut butter sat on the counter, right next to the bread—where Ryan always left it. Smiling, Marcus made himself a sandwich. Biting into the thick peanut-buttery goo, he grinned. Ryan had no clue what he was talking about. Peanut butter did not taste like crap without jelly.

It tasted just right.

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