I pour our two glasses—slowly—and come back to the table to see she’s finished one crepe and has picked around the edges of the omelet. Enough to say she’s full, even though that can’t be possible.
I don’t say anything about it. Don’t ask her if she liked it, if she wants more, if she wants something different. I just hand her the glass. She takes it, her fingers brushing mine. It’s brief, casual. But she doesn’t pull away right away. Doesn’t flinch or apologize. She keeps her eyes on our fingers around the cup for an extra beat, and then I let go, sit down, and resume my own meal.
She doesn’t seem to have a problem watching me eat (thank goodness; I’m a big eater). So we talk. And the more we talk—swapping childhood stories, laughing about grade school antics and awkward crushes—the more she picks at her omelet. She pokes at a pepper and then puts it in her mouth absentmindedly.
Maybe I’m wrong, but it feels like a victory.
When I’m finished, we take our dishes to the kitchen—she rinses, I load. And then we make a plan for the day. Kayla grabs a notebook and pen and starts writing, like she lives for itineraries.
“You want to get a meal after the run?” I ask, looking down at her list.
“Or we could get a smoothie. Or a coffee. I just think it’ll be helpful if the town sees us together. The faster they get used to this, the easier everything will be.”
“I don’t know,” I say, and for a moment, worry flits over her face. “I think you’re trying to get that kiss.”
She tips her head back in a laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”
I pepper her with questions about the team, the town council meeting, everything I can think of. I’d say I’m trying to be helpful, but I’m really stalling, trying to eat up the clock.
“Should we get going?” she asks around 11:30.
“Why don’t we unpack the books your assistant sent over. I would have set them up for you, but I wasn’t sure if you have an organizational system.”
“Okay, now you’re definitely trying to seduce me.”
I laugh and grab her hand, tugging her into the main room, where the bookshelves are.
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to be seen with me?” she teases as she putsAnne of Green Gableson the shelf first.
“Believe me, that’s not it,” I say, handing her the next book in the series.
“Really? Then why aren’t we going out?”
“Because it’s the day after our wedding. Nothing could be less believable than us leaving the house before noon.”
She flushes, but she’s smiling.
“Oh. Right.”
Is this really coming as a surprise to her? Has she met herself? Does she have any idea how captivating she is?
Only a fool wouldn’t hoard her like a dragon hoarding treasure.
I might be simple.
But I ain’t a fool.
CHAPTER TWELVE
KAYLA
By mid-afternoon, we’re on our way to the town council meeting.
“Let’s skip the meeting today,” he says.
We’re walking hand-in-hand from the parking lot, our arms pressing against each other with every other step. I know I should be more curious about what Sean’s saying, but instead, I can’t get over how strong and thick his hand is.
I swear I’ll stop comparing him to Aldridge eventually, but who knew a hand could be so … masculine? Attractive? His fingers are broad and dexterous from years of hockey and bartending. They’re the kind of hands that know how to carry weight—literally and figuratively.
