“Could always use a little bit more luck,” I say, happy for the distraction as I divert my gaze to the grass. “I’ve decided to make this my luckiest summer possible, and I’m taking any extra help I can get.”
“How’s that going for you?” he asks, and when I look over at him, I note the question is genuine.
“Well, I got this job.”
“So, bad,” he says, and I let out a small laugh at his unexpected joke. There’s a twinkle in his eyes, though his lips don’t shift into that tiny hint of a smile that I’m becoming addicted to.
“I wouldn’t say that. I’ve been enjoying working here so far,” I say.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says after a moment, then quickly adds, as if realizing his mistake, “Because you’re really good at your job. You saved the day yesterday.”
I let him have that one, mostly because he’s now moving his hands through the grass as well, and it distracts me thoroughly. He has nice hands: long, thick fingers, short, neat nails. The way they flex as they move feels like my own personal catnip, and?—
Nope, nope, nope. We arenotdoing this. Needing to distract myself, I blurt, “What are you doing?”
“Looking for four-leaf clovers,” he states, as if it’s obvious.
I stare at him for a moment in confusion. “Don’t you have something more grown-up and boring to do?”
“Absolutely,” he replies simply. “I was out of the office all morning. I’m sure my inbox is a disaster.” Again, my traitorous heart beats a bit faster.
“But you’re out here with me?”
He looks around as if assessing the validity before shrugging once more.
“Looks like it.”
I stare at him for a moment, his attention back on the grass as he inspects a clover with a torn leaf so italmostlooks like it had four leaves. With a moment of hesitation, I do the same, biting my lip as I move my hand through the clovers, though I’m not even looking anymore.
This is weird, right? I mean, just last week, he could barely look at me without grimacing and was telling me that my little lucky quirks were ridiculous. And now he’s sitting out here in his work clothes, brushing through the grass, looking for a four-leaf clover with me.
I should just enjoy it, bask in the moment, and accept that I’m getting just a bit closer to winning Graham over.
But being me means overthinking every second, unable to simply let anything good just be.
“This is too weird. I can’t do this,” I say.
He looks up at me with a questioning look. “Are you done looking for clovers?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t sit here knowing basically nothing about you.”
His brows furrow. “I don’t see how knowing anything about me impacts your ability to sit beside me.”
“Because it’s uncomfortable! What if you’re a serial killer? I’m pretty sure if a serial killer finds a four-leaf clover, it’s counterproductive.”
His head tips just a bit as he looks me over. I think he might say something about my not being worried about that when I went to his hotel room with him, but it seems we’re both on the same page of pretending that never happened.
“How would getting to know me clarify whether or not I’m a serial killer? From my understanding, they’re great at hiding their motives. That’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”
He has a great point, though I’ll never admit it.
“I’m a great judge of character,” I lie, because I’m actually aterriblejudge of character, not that I’ll be telling him that. I’m overly trusting, which, in my life, has been fine since I’ve always had Lainey and Grant, both of whom are so skeptical of everyone on God’s green earth, that it outweighs my own lack of skepticism.
“What do you want to know?” he asks, shifting his position so he’s sitting upright and leaning back on his hands. My chest tightens, partly from how his shirt stretches across his chest and partly from surprise that he’s actuallygoing along with this game.
“Want to know?” I repeat, fumbling for another chip and trying to act casual while my attention jumps between the food and him.
“Yeah. What do you want to know?”
