She’s stunning, plain and simple, and my hands itch with the desire to touch her. I shouldn’t, I know that. I’ve already decided not to act on this little crush I’m harboring because I want to keep her in the only capacity that is fair to both of us. Friends.
But still, my self-control is only so strong. So I nod, even though it’s a lie, and lift my hand to the corner of her mouth, and rub my thumb there. Her skin is so soft, and cold from the chilly morning air.
“Right here,” I say.
“Well,” she responds, cheeks turning the shade of a ripe strawberry. “That’s embarrassing.”
I shrug. “I’m a nurse. A little drool doesn’t bother me.”
She swipes a hand over her mouth, wiping at drool that isn’t there, and I let my own fall limply to my side, wishing I could reach for her again.
“C’mon, let’s jump your car. It’s cold.”
It’s the last weekend in October, a few days before Halloween, and the temperatures have officially dropped. The mornings and evenings are more than just chilly now, but the days still feel crisp beneath the sunshine. It’s the best kind of weather.
We attach the jumper cables to each of our batteries, huddled beneath the hoods against the wind, before hopping in the cars and cranking the engines. Thankfully, mine starts up, and Stevie hops down from her truck and lets herself into my car, coffee in hand, while we wait.
“Thanks again for coming,” I tell her, my eyes drawn to the imprint the pillow left on her cheek, crossing through one of her freckles.
She shrugs. “Happy to do it.”
I left the radio on when I shut off the car earlier and old country plays softly through the speakers, barely loud enough to be heard over the idling engine.
“I’m sorry I woke you up. What are your plans for the day?”
Stevie draws one of her knees up and sets her mug on it. “It’s Harvest Festival day,” she says. “You’ve probably seen the signs for it. It’s this huge festival the town throws every year on the last weekend of October. My family and I go every year. It’s honestly one of the busier weekends on the farm because they have pumpkin picking, but my parents have always taken it off and made it a point for us to go as a family.”
A wave of nostalgia crests over me. It’s the kind of family thing I always wanted to do as a kid, but Mom was so rarely off work. I didn’t appreciate all the ways she made magic for us at home though, all the ways she sacrificed to make little things special, and I wish I could go back and see it now.
“That sounds fun,” I tell her.
She gives me a sentimental smile. “It is.” A pause, her eyes searching mine, as if she’s weighing something in her mind. Then she says, “You should come with us.”
I blink, taken aback for a moment. “To the Harvest Festival with your family?”
She nods. “They loved you when you came to the house. They’d be thrilled if you came.”
It feels dangerous, letting myself get even more entangled here, like I might grow roots I’ll have to tear up in another three and a half weeks. But I find myself saying, “Okay,” anyway.
And when she smiles, her eyes bright in the morning sunshine, I know I’m screwed. That I’ve already let myself sink too deep. But I can’t bring myself to be upset about it.
“After you sleep, of course. You look beat.” She extends her coffee in my direction, and I accept it, letting the heat of the mug seep into my hands before I take a sip.
It’s warm and rich and just the tiniest bit bitter. My gaze locks on hers, a smile lifting my lips. “You used the moka pot.”
She shrugs. “It’s grown on me. I tried to use the Keurig yesterday, and I just couldn’t do it anymore.”
“I knew I’d leave an impression when I left.”
“Yes,” she says, with a roll of her eyes. “You’ll leave, but I’ll always have good coffee.”
She says it as a joke, but the words fall in the space between us, heavier than I’m sure she intended.
“Who knows? Maybe I’ll even get a grinder.”
I catch her eye. They’re more amber than hazel today, the color of expensive whiskey, and just as drugging. “I’ll send you beans.”
The grin she gives me is small, tentative. “I’d like that.”
