Trevor doubled down. “I don’t have to know him. I know the way men think.”
Whether or not Cody intended to sow his wild oats in college is neither here nor there. Holding a decade-old mistake over his head would be shortsighted, particularly if our connection was as strong as I remember.
I’ve even perfected how I’ll look when we lay eyes on each other. I’ll do my brows-to-hairline shocked expression and whimper, “Cody Venner, is that really you?” in a transatlantic, old-school, black-and-white-movie accent.
But now that I’m here, I’m paralyzed with fear. What if Cody thinks I’m nuts for showing up? What if he laughs in my face? What if he full-out rejects me, like all my other exes? Or worse, what if he doesn’t even remember me?
I’ll stay in this bush forever, I think to myself as Mel tries to coax me out with the promise of snacks. It smells divine in here, like a Christmas tree farm. It’s thick enough to shield me from the unforgiving wind. I’m finally convinced to emerge when she dangles the prospect of borrowing her shoes whenever I want.
After three steps, I think better of it and scamper back into the bushes like a skittish rodent. “Nope. Can’t do it. This was a bad idea.”
Mel yanks on my coat sleeve. “Look, I didn’t spend hours perfecting my sexy prospective-house-flipper look for nothing. As long as you stick to the script, everything will be fine. Remember, you’re just here for a second opinion on my house-flipping business. It’s all but a strange coincidence that he just so happens to be the selling agent.” She charges across the street at an alarmingly fast pace for someone in three-inch heel boots that she deems “house-flipper chic.” She definitely watches too much HGTV.
Before I even take a step, I close my eyes and suck in a dramatic breath.
Relax. You’ve got this. This could be your second-chance romance. The very one you’ve been waiting for. He could be in that very house and you’re wasting precious time, you nitwit!
My mental scolding works, because I strut forth like Miss Congeniality Sandra Bullock post-makeover, pre–twisted ankle. Hair blowing. Hips sashaying side to side to the beat of “She’s a Lady.” If only I had aviators to whip off with fierce attitude, revealing my soulful brown eyes. I imagine my gaze somehow ensnaring Cody from a distance, weakening him to his knees until he dissolves like an iceberg in the middle of the Sahara.
A foghorn pierces my ears, rudely interrupting my fantasy. A bright-yellow school bus lurches to a stop a few feet from me, brakes squealing. My sad little life flashes before my eyes. The elderly bus driver shakes his head, fury-motioning for me to get the hell out of the middle of the street.
Mel pulls me onto the sidewalk and brushes the nonexistent dirt off my coat, as if I’ve fallen on the ground or something. “Oh my God. You almost got crushed.”
“See? It’s an omen. A sign that this is a terrible idea,” I whine.
She tugs me toward the decaying porch’s peeling navy-blue stairs. “Come on. You’re fine.”
The porch steps sag under our weight. Our initial assessment was correct. This place is a serious project, but its original Victorian charm is still evident. The wood beams around the posts are carved into intricate curves and little swirls. The same swirls are embedded into the wood around the doors and windows, all of which look original.
When Mel opens the wooden double doors, a strong waft of eucalyptus instantly clears my stuffed nose. The foyer is narrow, with an elaborate wooden staircase jutting from the middle, flanked by a winter garland. A heavily accented Bostonian voice booms from the back of the house.
And that’s when I hear it. “。 . . the previous owners knocked down the wall to create an open living area . . .” It’s Cody. I’m sure of it. I haven’t heard his voice in years, but there’s a familiar cadence and rhythm to it that always reminded me of a TV news anchor.
Behind the staircase is an entranceway to the outdated kitchen. As Mel steps forward, a young couple and a man in a crisp gray suit pass the doorway. I instantly recognize the pronounced slope of his linebacker shoulders.
Mel points me to the kitchen to join the tour, but I hightail us upstairs to delay my fate.
For such a large house, the bedrooms are minuscule. Both bathrooms are severely outdated. I’m rambling about all the things I’d change about the house, momentarily under the grand delusion that I’m actually buying it myself, when Mel shushes me. “I think they’re leaving.”
“Thank you for the showing. We’ll be in touch,” a deep voice sounds from downstairs.
The door closes. Footsteps ascend the stairs. Panic ensues, and Mel tries to keep me in place, her hand over my mouth like a kidnapper. I’m like a mouse caught in a trap, just waiting to be discovered. It takes a solid moment, but I manage to wrench myself from her grip, ready to make a break for it. And I do just that. Heart pounding, I make it all of one step before slamming into Cody’s chest.
“Whoa. Where are you going?” He places his large hands over my shoulders, stabilizing me as he leans back, his eyes widening in recognition. “Tara?”
“Hi,” I squeak like I’ve inhaled helium. It’s a far cry from my rehearsed facial expression and script, but at this point, I’m just thankful he recognizes me.
A wide smile spreads across his face. “No freakin’ way!” he says jovially, going in for a full-body hug. He used to smell like Dove soap and the laundry detergent his mom used. But now he’s wearing a strong, musty cologne I don’t hate.
From his Realtor photos, I knew he’d grown into his teeth. I knew he now boasted a wide, angular jawline that should probably be considered a crime. I knew his previously long, skater-boy blond hair was now coiffed to perfection.
But what wasn’t evident from his professional headshots was his height. I’d forgotten how tall he was, nearly six feet, though not quite Trevor’s height. I know this because Trevor hugged me exactly once, when I surprised him by cleaning the entire apartment a few days ago. When he pulled me into his hard chest, my cheek molded perfectly in between his pecs, the top of my head just skimming his neck. And yes, I was on the precipice of keeling over right then and there.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” I manage, half-strangled in Cody’s embrace.
He releases me, his eyes flickering over my chest. Thank God I wore my push-up bra today. “What are you doing here? In the market for a house?”
Just stalking you a little. Hope you don’t mind. “Oh, no. I mean, yes. Kind of. My friend Melanie and I are just checking out—”
“I’m looking for an investment property to flip,” Mel cuts in with sharp confidence, saving me from myself. “I’ve come into a large sum of money from my late great-aunt.”
Cody buys her story. “Nice to meet you, Melanie. Tara and I actually went to high school together. Dated for, what? Two years?” He flashes me an enchanting, confident smile that reminds me of why I was so obsessed with him.
I’m about to point out that we dated for exactly three years and five months, but Mel makes a theatrical show of surprise. “No way! You dated? What a small world.”
Cody turns to me. “Still in Boston, huh?”