I turned to him, raising a brow.
He smirked, giving my back a light squeeze.Trust me,his face said.I know what moms like.
And he was right.
Mom wasfanningherself. FANNING herself.
“Well, you two lovebirds go and enjoy yourselves,” she said. “But you have to come for dinner when you’re back.”
“I’d love that,” John replied, voice warm and convincing.
A flurry of conflicting emotions spun through me. I waved goodbye and hung up before she could ask what season he preferred for a wedding.
John stepped out of reach almost immediately. I looked up at him, half apologetic, half annoyed. “She’s got Instagram now, and she’s told the neighbors. Sorry ’bout that.”
He shrugged, hands sliding into his pockets—pulling the waistband of his slacks just low enough that Icouldsee, if I wanted to (I didn’t… obviously), the start of a trail of hair leading downward.
“It’s not a problem,” he said in a tone that hinted at all the things hewasn’tsaying.
“You know, because of your—” I stepped closer, voice low. “Engagement,” I mouthed.
He looked down at me, amused. “My PR team can always discredit you,” he said lightly.
“Charming. How’s Queequeg?”
“Still fat.”
I bit my lip to hide a grin.
His gaze dropped from my face to my neck… then lower, snagging on the thigh-highs I was wearing. “You look…” He swallowed. “You look great, Nora.”
I waited for him to mention the selfie. But he didn’t. Just kept looking at me—my neckline, my collarbones, my legs.
A sudden heat surged through me. One that hadabsolutely nothingto do with how good he looked in that slightly unbuttoned white shirt. Or the memory of him pressing me against the shelf in the shed, his body caging mine.
Nothing at all.
I looked over my shoulder. “I guess we should go in?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, undoing another shirt button. “You nervous?”
I leaned back on my heels, realizing I’d risen to meet his height—like he was generating some kind of personal gravitational pull I couldn’t quite resist.
“Nervous about going home empty-handed? Or the fact that freakingLew Elliotmight end up holding my manuscript in his hands?”
He tilted his head, about to say something—when a camera flash lit up the side of his face. He blinked, adjusted his collar, and waved politely at the photographer.
I took a step back.
Otis appeared between us like a summoned spirit. “Hi, I’m Otis—Nora’s better half.”
At John’s wary expression, he added, “Better,verygay half.” He flashed a dazzling smile, his silver eyeliner catching the light like a disco ball.
John offered his hand—so old-fashioned. Otis grabbed it enthusiastically.
“Nice to meet you,” John said smoothly. “Nora’s told me a lot about you.”
“Has she now?” Otis grinned, still clasping John’s hand like he might never let go. “She’s such a treasure, isn’t she?”
