I’d driven past the garage a dozen times but never thought about what was above it. “You live here?”
“Sometimes. When I’m working late or don’t want to go home to the empty house.” He led me to a door at the back of the garage, up a narrow staircase. “Fair warning, it’s not as nice as the house. I don’t really keep it up.”
The apartment was small. A kitchen barely bigger than a galley, a living room with a couch and TV, a bedroom visible through an open door. But it was clean in that sparse, masculine way. No clutter, no decoration, just the essentials.
“I like it,” I said honestly. “It feels like you.”
“That’s not necessarily a compliment.”
“It is.” I set the pizza on the small kitchen table. “It’s real. Honest. No pretense.”
He looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. “I’m going to wash up. Make yourself at home.”
He disappeared into the bathroom, and I took the opportunity to really look around. There wasn’t much to see. A few books on the coffee table, a blanket draped over the couch, a coffee mug in the sink. Evidence of someone who existed here but didn’t really live.
It made my chest ache. It just felt lonely.
When he emerged, he’d washed his face and arms, and changed into a clean t-shirt he must keep here. His hair was damp where he’d run wet hands through it, and he looked younger somehow. Less guarded.
“Better?” he asked.
“You looked fine before.” I opened the pizza box. “But I appreciate the effort.”
We ate standing at the kitchen counter, too hungry to bother with plates or formality. He devoured three slices in the time it took me to finish one, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“When did you eat last?”
“Breakfast. Maybe.” He grabbed another slice. “I’ve been swamped. Jenkins wants his car done by tomorrow, and the timing belt on the Miller truck is shot, and Mrs. Ridley’s van needs…” He stopped, shook his head. “Sorry. You don’t want to hear about my work problems.”
“I do, actually.” I touched his arm. “I want to hear everything. Tell me why you’re killing yourself with work.”
He was quiet for a moment, chewing slowly. “Because if I’m working, I’m not thinking.”
“About?”
“About August.” He set the pizza down, his appetite apparently gone. “About you leaving. About how this…” He gestured between us. “...ends.”
My stomach twisted. “Dex...”
“I know. I know it has to end. We agreed. Your life is in Blue Point Bay, mine’s here. It makes sense.” He turned to face me fully. “But knowing it makes sense doesn’t make it hurt less.”
I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t trust my voice not to break if I tried.
He must have seen something in my face because he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Dance with me.”
“What?”
“Dance with me.” He was already pulling out his phone, scrolling through music. “We’ve done everything else backwards. Bar hookup, then meeting the family, then dating. Might as well add dancing to the list.”
“There’s no room…”
“There’s plenty of room.” He found what he was looking for, and soft music filled the small apartment. Something old andbluesy, the kind of song you slow dance to at the end of the night. He held out his hand. “Please?”
How could I say no to that?
I took his hand and let him pull me close. We swayed together in the tiny kitchen, barely moving, just holding each other. His hand was warm on my lower back, his other hand cradling mine against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong.
“I didn’t know you were such a romantic,” I murmured.
