“Seven,” I said, fighting the urge to lean on the doorframe because my knees had apparently forgotten how to function.
“Crap,” she muttered, raking a hand through her hair. “I fell asleep on the couch. Give me five minutes.”
She stepped aside to let me in, and I followed, probably too fast. The apartment was warm, cozy in that small-town way. Lydia had fixed the place up with the exposed brick walls, soft lighting, and the faint scent of vanilla candles. A blanket was tangled on the couch where she’d obviously crashed.
“I wasn’t sure you’d actually answer the door,” I said lightly, shrugging out of my jacket.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she said, disappearing toward the bathroom.
“You stood me up once.”
“That was different.”
“How so?”
“Just was.”
I laughed. “So this is progress?”
“Don’t push your luck.” Her voice echoed in the tiny space.
I grinned, wandering around the living area, pretending to admire the decor when really I was just trying not to imagine what she looked like getting dressed in the next room.
“You want something to drink?” she called out.
“Got any beer?”
“Fridge.”
I found a couple of bottles, twisted one open, and took a long swallow. My reflection in the window looked far too pleased with itself.
When she came back out, tugging on a soft sweater and running a hand through her hair, I nearly dropped the bottle.
Radiant.
That was the only word for her, and not in some dramatic, movie-star way.
She justglowed.Her cheeks were pink from sleep, her eyes bright, and her smile, half shy, half defiant, was enough to make my pulse stutter.
“You, uh,” I started, then caught myself. “You look—”
“Like I fell asleep in my clothes?”
“Yeah,” I said with a crooked grin. “And somehow still manage to look better than anyone has a right to.”
She rolled her eyes, but I saw the corner of her mouth twitch. “You were six minutes late.”
“Traffic,” I said automatically.
“Reckless River doesn’t have traffic.”
“Snow, then.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you overslept.” I leaned back against the counter, still grinning. “Rough day?”
“Just long, lots of pressure. There was a squirrel incident. A guy who kept talking,” she said, fussing with her sleeves.
