AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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Daryl entered the phone number into an open text message and sat staring at his phone for a moment. He reminded himself that he loved his brother and, throughout his life, Merle had always needed a little help in situations when he was frozen against helping himself. He'd come through for Daryl, countless times, when Daryl needed him to do something, so Daryl figured he owed Merle a few when it came to helping him get what the hell he needed out of life.

"Are you Living Springs' Farrah Fawcett?"

Daryl didn't have to wait long for a response to appear.

"Who is this?"

"Is this the right number? Did you meet up with someone on Friday? Might have called you Farrah Fawcett?"

"Merle?"

Daryl smiled to himself.

"Gotcha," he said out loud, before he returned to texting.

"Are you interested in more than Friday night?"

"Is this a booty call?"

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Not unless that's what you want. Is that what you want?"

There was a long silence. The dots danced, disappeared, danced again, disappeared…maybe this woman was perfect for Merle. It seemed she neither wanted to commit to her desire for a booty call, nor did she want to commit to saying that she wasn't interested in such a thing. Daryl decided to help her out.

"I'm saying that ain't all it's gotta be. If you are interested. Are you interested?"

"I gave you my number for a reason."

Daryl nodded his head at the woman's response.

"Fair enough. This is Merle's brother. Merle's a little bit of a chickenshit. He's wanting to see you again."

Dancing dots. A lot of dancing dots that danced for a long time. Daryl lit a cigarette and watched the dots, figuring that he was going to have a novel to read when the message finally came through. He was surprised to see that what he got didn't really merit the amount of time that it had taken to write it.

"Why isn't he texting me, then?"

"Because he's a chickenshit. He's not sure you're really interested. His ass don't do good with subtle. You gotta be real obvious. Blunt. Merle ain't the type to take a chance on something that ain't a sure thing."

"He didn't have a problem Friday night."

"One night's one thing. I won't tell you do or don't one way or another. I'm just letting you know what you can do if you're interested. If you don't want to, that's OK, too. Have a great life. Merle's just too chickenshit to take a chance, even if he wants to."

"You think he wants to?"

Daryl smiled to himself.

"I know it."

Daryl rounded out his conversation with the woman—whoever she may be—by giving her their address in case she couldn't recall it. He chose a time when Merle was likely to be home, sure that he could make himself scarce, and gave it to her. Merle could spook himself into backing out of a phone call, but Daryl knew he wouldn't run if he was face to face with the woman again, and he told her as much. If she was bold enough to make a move, she could. Daryl had no doubt that Merle would respond. He'd been damn near grieving since she'd left. Still, Daryl knew Merle well enough to know that he wasn't going to trust that anyone would want him beyond the one night, and he wasn't going to be the one that got left behind when someone ran off. If she was bold enough to leave no question about her interest, though, she just might get Merle to eat from her hand—especially since it was clear that he so desperately wanted what she had on offer.

When Daryl figured that he'd done all he could do to set the wheel in spin—however the hell things may end up—he closed out the message with Merle's Better-Than-Farrah-Fawcett and opened the last conversation he'd had with Carol. He smiled to himself as he reread some of the previous conversation. Then he washed down the remains of his cigarette with a few swallows of beer before grabbing another out of the fridge and lighting himself a new cigarette.

Settled in his chair, he texted her.

"Just thought we could talk a little about the book if you got time."

Daryl's heart drummed hard in his chest. His hands shook slightly. Each message, he recognized, could be the moment that Carol simply said "you know what? I don't want to do this" and that could be the end of it. The fact that she hadn't said that, yet, actually surprised Daryl a great deal and probably contributed to the level of nerves that he felt with each message he sent. Each one, after all, seemed to increase the likelihood that she would finally be tired of him.

"I don't think I can text tonight."

Daryl's heart plummeted into his gut.

"Something wrong?" He asked, dreading the answer.

There was a delay, but finally her message came through.

"No. Hands full."

Daryl blew out a breath. Full hands were something he could handle.

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Carol smiled to herself when she saw Daryl's name flash across her screen as her ringtone blared, startling her. For a half a second, her stomach lurched at the thought that simply the word "Daryl" had made her smile. She didn't linger too long with the thought, though, before she dried her hand quickly, answered the call and, setting the phone on speaker, rested the phone beside her.

"You're on speaker," she said, returning to her work.

"Hey to you, too," Daryl said with a laugh.

Carol smiled to herself.

"Hey. You're on speaker."

"You got company? I don't wanna interrupt nothing."

"No company," Carol said. "It's just my hands are full."

"Am I allowed to ask what you're doing?"

"Cutting up fruit," Carol said. "And vegetables. Lots of it. For tomorrow."

"What happens tomorrow?"

"We're trying some new omelet recipes at the café," Carol said. "And we're going to try some fresh fruit desserts, too. I'm going in early to start getting things ready so I can run things by the Glory Gals before we open. I want some opinions before I start a day menu."

"Glory Gals?" Daryl asked. "That like some investors or…?"

"My friends, remember? I think I told you about them at dinner."

"Didn't remember you had a name," Daryl said. "That make you like an MC?"

"MC?"

"Club," Daryl said. "Like—for bikes. Motorcycles."

"More like the Pink Ladies from Grease," Carol said with a laugh. "Without the greasers and so much dancing and singing."

"You mean there's some dancing and singing?" Daryl asked.

Carol laughed to herself.

"Only when there's enough alcohol involved," she offered.

"Fair enough. Listen—I'm about halfway through Shopkeeper's Daughter, so you better start gettin' together what you're gonna bring me to read next."

"You haven't read that much of it."

"Cross my heart. I gotta ask, though—what's your favorite part?"

"I have a lot of favorite parts," Carol said. "Some you haven't even gotten to yet. But—I think I'd rather know your favorite part."

"That's how it's always gonna go?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm gonna ask you what you like and you're gonna turn it around on me? That's how it's always gonna go?"

"Maybe I just want to know if you've read it," Carol challenged.

"Oh—I read it. At least half of it, anyway. OK. Fair enough. You wanna know my favorite part? At least—so far." Carol hummed in the affirmative and Daryl cleared his throat. "You gonna make fun of me?"

"I wouldn't ever," Carol said. Her chest tightened and her stomach did the same odd flip that it had done several times during this conversation. She meant what she said. She wouldn't make fun of him. She didn't want to hurt his feelings. And, not that she would make fun of anyone and attempt to hurt their feelings, but the level of concern that she felt for Daryl's feelings made her just a little bit nervous.

"My favorite part is where Miles goes to Janie's daddy and he's just telling him that he's gonna marry Janie, one day, with or without his blessing, but that he'd like to have his blessing on account of the fact that it's gonna be better for their family. My other favorite part, though, is where Janie's just telling Miles everything they're gonna have together once they're married, you know? The whole—damn dozen of kids to work their farm and the house and chickens."

"You have been reading it."

"I told you I have. I don't lie. I might fuck up because I tell too much of the truth, but I don't lie. What's your favorite part. I told you mine."

Carol laughed to herself.

"I showed you mine," she said. "It's always that."

"If it weren't, you wouldn't tell me a damn thing ever."

"I like those parts," Carol said. "The ones you mentioned. I like a lot of what you haven't gotten to yet even more than the beginning. One of my favorite parts, early in the book, is where they're dancing. When they first meet and they're dancing."

"Why?" Daryl asked.

"What?"

"Is it because you like to dance?" Daryl asked.

"I just think it's romantic," Carol said. "The whole scene. I don't know if I like to dance. I've never really done it before. Not like that."

"You said there was dancin' with the Golden Girls," Daryl said.

"Glory Gals," Carol corrected with a laugh.

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine," Carol said. "We're not that old, yet. And—that's different. It's like—dancing around the kitchen or the living room and just being silly. The only time I've ever danced, danced was…when I married Ed. We had the first—you know, the first dance. The only dance."

"Why the only one?"

Carol sighed.

"He was angry about something someone said at the reception or…maybe something I did," Carol said. "It should have been a red flag that we couldn't even get through the reception without a fight. I don't want to talk about that, Daryl…OK?"

"Whatever you want," Daryl said. "You wanna talk about it, I'll hear it. You don't wanna talk about it? There's plenty other shit to talk about. You—got somethin' in particular you might want to talk about?"

Carol thought about the invitation for a moment.

Ed never asked her what she wanted to talk about—much like he never asked her what she wanted, period. He wasn't very interested in what she wanted. And, as their marriage had trudged on toward its final ending, he hadn't been very interested in talking to Carol at all. He'd preferred yelling. Of course, Carol hadn't been very interested in talking to Ed, either. Talking to Ed only led to fights—and fights, with Ed, got out of hand very quickly.

Daryl was sincere, though, and Carol's stomach twisted a little to think that she'd probably talked to Daryl more, since she met him, than she'd talked to Ed in a whole year of marriage.

"There is something," Carol said, her stomach knotting, untangling, and knotting again as she faced actually putting voice to what she was thinking.

"Go ahead," Daryl said.

"Why are you talking to me right now?"

There was silence. Then a burst of laughter. It wasn't sincere laughter. It was nervous laughter.

"Whatta you mean?" Daryl asked. "You don't like talkin' to me?"

"I didn't say that," Carol said. "And it isn't that…I mean—I told you about Ed. My failed marriage. Why aren't you…married?"

Silence again. Then the sound of Daryl blowing air out. It was a little distant, like he moved the phone away from his face for a moment. He returned.

"You go straight for it, don't you?" He asked.

"I'm sorry."

Daryl laughed quietly.

"No—don't be. I mean, shit was bound to come up, right? Might be a decent length story, though. Right? Tell you what—why don't we save it?"

Carol smiled to herself.

"For when you talk me into having breakfast with you again?" She teased.

"Not breakfast," Daryl said. "This ain't the kinda question you answer over breakfast. Dinner. Friday night. I'll grill a couple steaks to go with all these cattle I've been readin' about. Answer your question. Maybe we can discuss the book some more, since I know I'll be finished by then."

"Dinner. At your house?" Carol asked.

"Or yours," Daryl said. "Wherever you'll be more comfortable. I can grill the steaks and bring 'em if you want."

Carol focused on her own breath for a moment. Her hands were shaking, and she stopped slicing fruit until she trusted her hands more. She scratched her nose by rubbing it with her wrist—not wanting to get sticky juice all over her face.

"I have a grill," Carol said. "I never use it, but…the guy who sold it to me at Lowe's said it's a good one."

"Perfect," Daryl said. "I'll bring some charcoal."

"I can make baked potatoes. A nice salad?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Can I ask you something else, Daryl? Something that—doesn't have to wait until Friday?"

"Whatever you want."

"Are you going to do this every time we talk?"

"Do what?"

"Talk me into—another time?"

Quiet laughter.

"As many times as you let me," Daryl offered sincerely. "You don't wanna have dinner, we don't got to. At the end of the day, it's up to you."

"I want to have dinner," Carol said.

"Good," Daryl said. "Because—I sure as shit do too. Maybe—I'll see you before Friday, though."

"Oh?"

"Drop in for coffee," Daryl said. "Before work. Day after tomorrow. Return your book. Maybe—you could have me a couple more to borrow?"

"You want to borrow more books?"

"Your favorites," Daryl said. "Hell—fast as I'm gettin' through this—four or five, even. I don't care if they're like this or the…cheesy porn variety. Whatever the hell you like the best. Surprise me."

"You don't have to do that, Daryl," Carol protested.

"That's the thing," Daryl said. "Neither one of us has gotta do anything—none of this. And maybe my ass is gonna regret sayin' this shit but…I give my brother a speech about carpe the damn diem today and I'd be a hypocrite not to take my own advice so…we don't gotta do this, but I'm enjoyin' it."

Carol's heart thundered in her chest. Her head swam a little with an unfamiliar lightness. Her stomach tangled around itself. She thought, even, that her knees might not keep her standing there at her kitchen sink.

Still, she sucked in a breath and gathered up her courage—her body making her feel more like she was going to face a hungry bear than to simply say a few words to Daryl.

"Me too," she breathed out.