by Kim Roshell
“She met someone.”
Huh. Can’t say I was expecting that. Especially not after all her evasiveness. Figured her avoidance had more to do with wanting to protect Ashley, but maybe the loyalty only goes so far. “I heard. Have to admit, I’m a little surprised you called to tell me, though.”
“How’d you know my aunt met someone?”
“Your aunt met someone?”
“Who’d you think I was—” She cuts off the rest of her question, goes quiet. Sighs. “Ashley met a guy?”
“That’s the word.”
Her heavier sigh tells me she really didn’t know.
“I don’t understand her lately,” she mutters. “That explains why she hasn’t been blowing up my phone.”
Hilarious. “Thought the same about mine.”
“When’d she tell you?”
“She didn’t. Ryan.”
“I’m sorry.”
There’s pity in her voice. I don’t need it.
“Don’t be. We ain’t exclusive anymore.” Which has me seriously considering Ryan’s point. Why should I feel guilty about getting to know Simone better? I can spend time with whomever I want, especially if the goal is friendship. “What’s the deal with Ms. Katie?”
“Apparently, she’s found herself a boyfriend. Some attorney. Mark somebody. He travels a lot. That’s the story, anyway, but from what I can tell, they’ve been seeing one another for, like, two seconds. All of a sudden, he’s chomping at the bit to meet me. Today. For brunch.”
You’d think the guy asked to meet her in a dark alley by the venom in her tone. “That’s a bad thing?”
“Uh, yeah. I mean, how serious can he be about her if they only just met? Don’t you think it’s a little early for a meet and greet with the kid?”
“Well, maybe, but you’re not exactly a kid, Simone.”
Coop slides his to the center of the table. He’s flat-out stopped pretending he isn’t listening to my every word, scooting to the edge of his seat. I know his expressions well enough—current being the gape-mouthed, eyes narrowed in thin slivers of interest—to know there’s no way in hell he’ll buy this “buddies pact” Simone and I made. Coop will call bullshit long before I can formulate a halfway decent lie. Don’t help I let it slip where I rushed off to yesterday after we got home from the zoo. Inwardly, I cringe over my crucial error, keeping my eyes trained on the bowl in front of me.
“Still, he’s taking this thing stupid-fast.”
“Sounds like this guy really digs your aunt.”
She groans. “I know you have church and everything, but can you go? With us? I mean, if you’re not busy? The two of you will have something in common, and I do not wanna do this alone. Like I said, he’s an attorney, so he’ll probably talk about the law and politics, crap I know nothing about, I won’t have a clue what—”
“Meet you there,” I interject, already strategizing the best exit plan after service to avoid getting cornered by Sister Andrews to listen to her endless stories about the garden I helped till last year. I only have seven days to binge Simone Bruckner and her amazing everything out of my system. Despite our marathon conversation last night, I’m going to need every second of that time. “Looking forward to it.”
“Are you, now?”
I shake my head in silent response to my brother’s inquiry. There’s a remote possibility of convincing Coop that, once again, what he heard isn’t how it sounds. He sits back, crosses his arms in front of his chest, skepticism arching his brow. Probably due to the pitiful fight I’m losing against the smile spreading around my ears. I’ll deal with him later.
“Fair warning, people might see us. Gonna be all right with that?”
“I . . . crap. You know what? Can we just not think about that right now? What if he hates me, Whit?”
“Impossible. Five seconds, he’ll know beauty and brains run in the family.”
“Yeah?” she asks softly.
I really like her voice. “Definitely.”
“Sure you don’t mind tagging along?”
“Be my honor. Just tell me when and where.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Simone
Why am I so freaking nervous? Mark? Nice guy. Either that, or his acting ability ranks right up there with the Rob Lowe thing he has going on. Super cute, even for an old dude. Good dresser, not too stuffy. Great sense of humor, too. Knows music from Top 40 to Classical, has a favorite in every genre. Bonus? He shares our love of movies.
He’s perfect for Aunt Katie.
I avert my gaze, feigning interest in the décor when he catches me staring at him for the fifty-leventh time. Tate’s is a far cry from this place. Morton’s is one of those upscale joints where ties are required for evening dining and the waiters practically wipe your mouth every time you take a bite. Sunday brunch is a bit less snooty, caters to the after church crowd, but not so informal jeans and t-shirt are acceptable. I’ve been to Whit’s dad’s church twice with Ashley, though that was a while ago. Members of Way to Redemption are an eclectic bunch. Some dress to the nines, while others takes that whole “come as you are” message to the most casual level.
I forgot to mention Morton’s dress code, so I sat on pins and needles for what felt like an eternity until my cavalry arrived, rocking the mess out of a pair of dark khakis and a light blue button-down, the top one undone. Tucked in, shirtsleeves rolled to just before his elbows. Cobalt blue tie loosened at the neck.
He looks completely appropriate. And hot.
So far, he’s exuding just the right balance of intelligence, confidence, and humility to not only make what I feared would be an awkward affair way more comfortable, he’s also kept Aunt Katie and Mark engaged in steady conversation, leaving me free to shake the anxiety. Sort of.
I release the vice I locked his fingers in underneath the table the moment he sat, exhaling for what feels like the first time in hours. I’ve barely touched my food, and after almost two and a half days of next to nothing staying down, I’m freaking starved. My stomach cares nothing about my embarrassment, grumbling noisily in displeasure over the way I’ve so carelessly let some of the whipped cream melt off of the fluffy Belgian waffle awaiting my attention. I unroll the white linen napkin in search of a fork. I’m all set to dig in.
Figures Mark would choose this very second to turn his vibrant gaze in my direction. Once again my stomach dips. The tiniest of gasps slips out between my lips. Can’t be helped. Hot guy on my right, hot guy across from me.
“Kate tells me you want to be a social worker.”
Dang. What other deets has Aunt Katie shared? The guy’s confessed to sharing my love of breakfast foods—before I placed an order, mind you—asked Whit if he’d like to join us for another trip to the zoo, of all places, then offered to repair the hinge on my closet door because he’d heard it’s been giving me some issues.
Does he know I still use a nightlight, too?
Aunt Katie claims it took a while before things got serious, but there’s no mistaking how comfortable they are in one another’s company. Touching, sharing looks. The kind that say more than the words coming out of their mouths—the way my parents behaved when they were alive.
I take a clumsy stab at my food. The sharp clink of tines striking glass—Am I trying to chip this plate?—is the perfect soundtrack for my unsettled nerves. I don’t trust my voice just yet, opt for an awkward nod as I stuff a heaping mound of waffles in my mouth.
Whit settles his recently freed fingers over my knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
I may never wash that knee again.
“Noble profession. The world needs strong advocates. Smart people with compassion. From everything I’ve heard, I’d say you’ll be one of the best.”
“Honey, wait until you see all the stuff Whit brought over for Simone the other night,” Aunt Katie interjects because she knows how weirded out I can get.
“Oh, yeah. Kate mentioned you’d cleaned out a store for the lovely lady si
tting next to you.” Mark extends his fist for a bump—See what I mean about being cool?—which Whit meets with a manly tap of his knuckles.
“Two or three shelves, max, sir.”
“Well done,” Mark commends with a nod. “Good men take care of their women.”
The burn that comes with swallowing a chunk of food too soon lights my esophagus on fire. I cough to extinguish the flames.
Without missing a beat, Whit passes me his orange juice. “Very true, sir,” he agrees, smoothly. “Do as much as she’ll let me.”
Aunt Katie eyes us both, suspicious, not that the daft boy sitting next to me notices. He turns his full attention on me, winks, then deprives my knee of the warmth his palm was providing to resettle it on the spot right between my shoulder blades. His pinkie traces my bra strap.
The sensation flusters me right into another coughing fit. Because I haven’t already been doing a bang-up job of embarrassing myself, of course. Of all the days not to choose the waterproof mascara, I went all out with the far more impressive extended-lash stuff. I know I’ll look like a crazed clown in less than a second.
I hate to stain their pristine white napkin for damage control, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right?
Before I can take my first swipe, Whit runs interference, rubbing the pad of his thumb over my cheek. Any other time, his gentle touch would be soothing, but here and now?
“I’m fine,” I sputter, shaking away from his touch to blot away the stream of black ink on the other side. I do not look at the two people sitting across from us. Our little show is bound to raise some questions.
Using a little more force than necessary, I plunk the glass down on the table in the space between our plates.
My forcefulness does not go unnoticed. The dang pinkie that started this whole thing dips, pressing against my spine. Whit swivels in his seat until he may as well straddle the darn thing. Engages us in an epic stare-down, the thrill of battle shines in his hypnotic hazel eyes as I struggle not to blink. With nothing to occupy my fingers, I fiddle with the napkin balled in my fist.
This, he somehow notices. Without breaking eye contact, he slips his fingers over mine, letting his knuckles brush over my thigh, invading even more of my personal space. Another tiny gasp slips from my lips before I can catch it.
One corner of his mouth kicks up.
I swallow, blink. Wave the white flag of surrender, concede his victory. He’s got better weapons. “What if I’m still contagious?” I ask, my voice a breathy, high squeak. You know, because of all the coughing. Definitely nothing to do with how delicious he smells.
His jaw relaxes. Any apprehension he may have been feeling ebbs from his face, easily replaced by one of those dang irresistible grins. The one that shows all of his perfectly straight teeth. Shrugging off my concern, he backs off just enough to retrieve the juice again. Puts the rim to my lips, tips the glass. Which, you know, leaves me zero choices except to drink.
“Little late worryin’ ‘bout that, not that I am,” he answers, low and smooth as warm butter, close to my ear, yet what I’d bet my next fifty paychecks is perfectly decipherable to the two people tuning in from across the table.
Does he seriously not know how he sounds right now? Or, how we look? And hello? Does the idea of boundaries even occur to this boy? Lean in any closer, we can sip from this glass at the same time. Not even twenty-four hours into this foolish plan, we’re already blurring lines.
This time, I take the glass from his hand, set it on the opposite side of my plate. Clear my throat. Reclaim a smidge of backbone. “Better safe than sorry. I’ll order you another.”
The grin melts from Whit’s lips, flattening into a scowl that somehow makes him hotter. How is that possible? Such a phenomenon has to be on the list of life’s greatest mysteries, right?
Suffice it to say, had I any good sense, I’d slide my butt out of this chair and hunt down our waiter myself, but good sense and me? Safe to say we’re on the outs, as of late.
He leans closer, pressing dangerously against that tiny bubble of space between the friends’ zone and secret lovers. His chest grazes my arm with agonizing slowness as he reaches across my plate. The intoxicating scent of his cologne invades my nostrils, replacing the air in my chest, defying me to exhale.
My fortitude withers under his hot stare. “Good with this one,” he states, not noticing one iota how deeply he has me vexed.
To further prove he’s a too-sexy-for-his-own-good idiot, he raises the glass to his mouth, positioning it in the exact same spot where the final remnant of my gloss marks the glass, then proceeds to drain it dry. My eyes latch on to his Adam’s apple, following the lazy bobs as he swallows.
Goodbye, backbone. I slump back in my seat.
Aunt Katie’s jaw drops.
Guess who’ll be chowing on birth control with every meal?
Mark snorts into his cup. “You were right, Kate, I like this guy.” Clearly enjoying our show, he sets his steaming brew to the side, then props his elbow on the table. “Said your father is a preacher, Whit?”
Slower than the last day of school, Whit finally peels his eyes away from mine, straightening in his seat. “Yes, sir.”
“Devereaux?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wouldn’t happen to be related to Justice Deuce Devereaux, would you?”
“He’s my granddaddy.”
“Explains a lot,” Mark tells my shell-shocked aunt. “Apple didn’t fall far, at all.”
“Take that as a compliment, sir.”
“As well you should. Your grandfather is a formidable warrior.”
“We’ve only kissed one time.”
The words—the stupidest of confessions, for sure—barrel from my mouth because I’m a bigger idiot than the boy sitting next to me. The laughing boy sitting next to me. Really, would stabbing him with my fork be so wrong?
“What I mean is we didn’t last night. He only played in my hair, but I’m not his woman.”
Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!
I hide my face in my hands. “Oh, God, I’m making this worse, aren’t I?”
“He’d probably say yeah, but I think what you’re doin’ is awesome. Seriously, you gotta tell me which medicine you took.”
Okay, I take it back. Ol’ Chuckles, here, is the bigger idiot. Not by much, but enough. “I’m making a fool of myself.”
“Hey, c’mon, stop it,” he admonishes. Against my better judgment, something I’ve already established is severely lacking, I allow him to pry my fingers away from my eyes. “So pretty when you blush, know that?”
Why is . . . ? Is Aunt Katie laughing, too?
Seriously, what ever happened to loyalty?
“Don’t be so nervous. Mark thinks you’re great.”
“I do,” Mark affirms.
“See? Worryin’ over nothin’.” Gah! How can I stay mad when he smiles like that? “Think Simone worries we may be givin’ the wrong impression ‘bout our friendship.”
I have to say the very unladylike snort from the other side of the table is so not appreciated.
Neither is Mark’s guffaw. “Nope, pretty sure I’ve got it right.” He sets his cup down again, his hand shaking too much from his laughter. “You clear, Kate?”
“Crystal,” she replies. “Hey, Simone, I was thinking we can probably get a sooner appointment, yeah?”
See what I mean about that birth control diet?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Rest assured, falling don’t feel convenient while you’re plummeting.
Whit
Moving to the Midwest was a shock in more ways than one. Like to think I’ve adapted all right. Snow boots instead of cowboy boots—at times. The necessity for four-wheel drive on flat terrain. Where I come from, girls like a good meal as much as guys. Took some adjusting, but I made peace with sitting across from Ashley while she picked through varying shades of lettuce, grew accustomed to ordering her low-fat balsamic vinaigrette dress
ing—on the side—for her to gingerly dip the tip of her fork into it before selecting a suitable leaf I presume added the least amount to her daily caloric intake.
Didn’t like it much, but again, I adapted.
Sharing a meal with Simone is nothing like that. Those waffles didn’t get too dented yesterday, but she’s already working her way into a wreck with her dinner tonight. She started with a salad, adequately covered in buttermilk Ranch. Ate every bit, including the mountain of croutons I’d expected her to push to the side. The empty bowl got shoved into our waiter’s outstretched hand to make room for the baked ziti being set in front of her. Cheese drips off one side of the plate.
She looks pleased.
“Glad to see you’ve found your appetite.”
Simone dabs the cleaner corner of her mouth with her napkin, licks the other.
My mouth waters.
“Now that we’re here, I’m a little hungry.”
“Really? Couldn’t tell.”
Not sure if the eye roll she sends my way is intended for me or for the food she’s about to tuck into, but she’s smiling.
“Doesn’t this come—? Oh, okay, thank you.” Simone beams at our server, nodding her approval as he hands over a basket overflowing with garlic bread. Her smile widens as the steam wafts under her nose.
This girl. Too damn appealing for her own good.
“Anything else I can get for you?”
Either I need new contacts, or our server just winked at my date.
Not my date date. The friend I invited out for dinner after spending most of the day with along with a sizeable portion of my cash, all because I’m not ready to part ways yet. We’ve talked more than we ever have. I’ve learned a ton about her. Course, a week won’t be long enough to learn all the nuances of this girl, not the way I’d like, anyway, but what I have discovered in this short amount of time has me wishing—
No.
Regrets are for suckers. I don’t regret my choices, good or bad. Every outcome has helped shape who I am.
But it bears repeating, I love learning, so I’m not down with someone honing in on my limited study time.
Trust, I’m studying this girl.
