Sweet Talking Man

Cal scowled. “Jesus, it’s just a friendly gesture. We can be civil, can’t we?”

“Sure. As long as it’s not with your lips.”

“Goddamn, you’re cold,” Cal said in a hurt voice.

“What did you expect? I’d be the same as I once was?” Abigail opened the front door. “I’ll treat you cordially, Cal, because of Birdie. But if we didn’t have a child, you would have never crossed this threshold.”

Cal studied her for a moment, saying nothing, before slipping out the door, leaving behind the scent of Brooks Brothers Gentlemen cologne. She watched the taillights of his truck fade before she stepped out into the chilly night. The porch that ran across the front of the house was deep enough for several sets of rocking chairs perfectly centered on the plantation windows. Her breath puffed white as she shuffled toward the swing at the end of the porch. Her body felt brittle, her soul tormented by tonight’s events. Cal was in her life and she had no say about it because they shared Birdie.

Wonderful, temperamental, soulful Birdie.

She released a breath.

“Sounds like you need a drink.”

Abigail nearly jumped out of her skin as she spun toward the porch railing. Standing in the moonlight, clad in a down-filled jacket, was Leif. He held a liquor bottle and two glasses.

“You scared me to death.”

His teeth flashed in the moonlight. “You look alive to me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you.”

“Checking on me?” She stiffened, grappling with the idea that Leif cared enough to check on her.

“And bringing you a drink.”

“A drink?”

He climbed the steps, his shoes quiet on the slats as he moved toward her. “You expected something more herbal from me? I’ve heard the rumors, but I don’t smoke weed. I do, however, like a good Scotch.” His blue eyes were sparkling with warmth. He wagged the bottle.

“I could use a drink.” She sat on the swing and glanced at the spot beside her. If he were anyone else, she would have expected him to sit in the rocker a few feet away, but she wanted to feel him beside her.

Yeah. She’d gone nuts.

Leif settled beside her, twisted the lid off the bottle and poured two generous fingers of what looked to be Balvenie. He’d brought the good stuff. Handing her one, he clinked his glass to hers. “I’d make a toast but this isn’t about futures or well wishes. You just need a drink, hon.”

“No shit.”

She didn’t bothering sipping. Tonight called for a belt.

“Whoa. Slow down there, soldier.” Leif leaned back, his shoulder brushing hers.

Abigail did as he bid and took a demure sip. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why are you being nice to me? You don’t know me.”

He tilted his head. The move made him cuter. “Best way to get to know someone is over a good Scotch.”

“But why would—”

He pressed his finger against her lips. “Shh...sometimes it’s enough to be still. Just relax.”

It was the second time he’d said that to her, and she let the words sink in. She leaned against the swing, folding in on herself like a bouncy castle deflating after a kiddie birthday party. Sweet comfort.

Leif kicked the swing into motion. The clunk of the bottle hitting the porch was the last sound she heard before the night tucked them into quiet contemplation.

After several minutes, Abigail released a sigh.

“Ah, there you go. A good Scotch cures a lot of things.”

“Tonight sucked.”

“I know. Feels like getting sideswiped,” he said, his voice soft.

“Yeah, sideswiped,” she breathed, looking out into the inky darkness as if it could provide a solution to Cal showing up...a solution to her wanting to rest her head on Leif’s shoulder. “You know, you’re a decent guy for a lothario.”

“Lothario?”

“I’m sorry. That’s not fair. Just because women hurl themselves at you...”

He stuck a finger to his cheek. “It’s the dimple.”

She felt her lips twitch before she could stop herself. “Magic, huh?”

His eyes grew flirty. “Is it working on you?”

Inside, she stilled much like the darkness around them. Should she laugh it off or tell him the truth? Roll the dice or hold her cards close? “Eh, kind of.”

“Perfect.”

He settled back, kicking them into motion again, seeming content to do nothing more than sit beside her, sip liquor and enjoy the intimacy of not having to say a thing.

An owl hooted and the squeak of the swing created a soothing lullaby as the warm liquor made Abigail feel languid and heavy. After they’d been sitting there for about a quarter of an hour, Abigail stopped the swing. “I should go inside.”

“It’s late,” he agreed, rising and extending a hand. She took it, almost sighing at the warmth of his skin against her cold hand. God help her, but she wanted to feel his arms around her, to give him what she’d denied Cal earlier.

“Thank you,” she said.

His eyes stayed soft as he whispered, “That’s what neighbors are for.”

“Neighbors?”

“And friends.”