Page 51 of Written with You (The Regret Duet 2)
I laughed. “Perfect.”
He slid the yogurt across the bar with a spoon on top and then got busy washing the grapes. “So, listen, I got in touch with your contractor today. He’s tearing out all your flooring and will be refunding you for clean-up. I sent my guy over to handle the mural. I didn’t trust this asshole with that task. But hopefully you should be back in business next week.”
“Someone should really report him to the Better Business Bureau.”
“I did that too.” He pushed a bowl of grapes my way, not even a hint of a lip twitch.
Wow. He was really sticking to this strangers thing.
I glanced back at Rosalee who was currently enthralled by a cartoon pup riding a fire engine and decided to push my luck. “We’re friends, right, Caven?”
He handed me a cup of coffee before replying. “We are.”
“Okay, well, it might be weird to tell you this, given our history and all, but I’m so damn excited that I need to tell someone.”
He canted his head. “I’m listening.”
I leaned forward on my elbows and whispered, “I got a text from a guy who asked me on a date and he says he looks like Ryan Reynolds.”
His eyebrows shot up, but this time, there was no hiding that damn lip twitch. “A date? With a Ryan Reynolds look-alike?”
“Yep.”
“But you’ve never seen him before. What if he’s catfishing you and he doesn’t look like Ryan Reynolds at all? What if they only have the same color hair?”
“He sounds incredible, so I’m willing to chance it.”
No matter how much he’d tried to play it off, he’d been joking around before. But suddenly, a dark shadow passed over his face, stealing all humor—hidden or not. “I hope he’s incredible for you. I truly do, Willow. But maybe you could spend the day with me today first? I have something I need to talk to you about.”
My stomach twisted. “Yeah. Of course. What’s up?”
He flicked his gaze to Rosalee. “Not now. We’ll talk when Alejandra gets here. We’ll go for a ride.”
I wasn’t quite sure what was going on or how he had flipped from fun and flirty to broken and mysterious so fluidly, but then again, there was a lot I didn’t understand about Caven Hunt.
Whatever it was he wanted to talk about, he was worried.
And even though I had a date with Mr. Reynolds the following night, thick concern crawled up the back of my throat.WILLOWI knew where we were going the minute he took the ramp toward Bellton. A southern suburb in New Jersey, it was even quieter and sleepier than Watersedge. It was over an hour from Caven’s house, and despite the way he drove with his hand locked on my thigh, there was a heavy weight blanketing the air.
My heart sank as he took all the familiar turns.
And then it crumbled when I realized just how familiar they were to him too.
As far as I knew, Caven hadn’t had any interaction with the survivors of the shooting, but then again, Truett West was no ordinary survivor. He was the tattooed man who had rushed in, helped Caven wrestle his father to the ground, and then fired the bullet that ended Malcom Lowe’s life.
Caven put the car into park in front of Truett’s small brick home in the downtown district of Bellton. Well, downtown was a stretch. There was a coffee shop on one end of the street and a diner on the other. Two blocks up, there was a row of mom-and-pop storefronts, but that was about it as far as shopping went. There wasn’t a chain or franchise in a fifteen-mile radius.
Just the way Truett liked it.
I’d shared a meal with Truett multiple times over the years. It had taken a while for me to break down his walls, but I could be persistent when I wanted to be. I wouldn’t say he was exactly fond of me, but he’d put up with me—grumbling the entire time.
Truth be told, he’d needed those visits just as much as I had.
Truett was a military veteran who suffered from severe PTSD after an incident overseas. After his return, he’d left the Army and become something of a recluse. The day of the mall shooting, he’d been out with his therapist on an exercise to help him reintegrate into society. His therapist had died beside him while he’d sat paralyzed with fear. Ultimately, he’d found himself again long enough to take down Malcom, but he was destroyed in the process.
He was now in his early forties. No wife. No family. No friends. Just Truett, alone in his house. He forced himself to the diner one day every week for dinner. After I’d witnessed the sheer terror on his face as his hands trembled while eating a club sandwich, it was all too clear that the venture out of his safe space was more of a punishment than it was therapeutic.
