Pace stared at me for a long beat, his gaze sharp and intent, like he was trying to map every turn of that wild ride. I gripped the strap of my bag tighter. If it could carry me away, now would be a great time. Not for the first time, I sat raw and exposed in front of Pace.
“That’s it?” he asked quietly.
“Also ... my second toe is disturbingly long,” I muttered, looking anywhere but him. “But yeah. That’s it.”
He stepped closer, just enough that I felt the warmth radiating from him. His fingers hovered near my forehead, brushing gently against my temple. “That’s what it’s like up there all the time?” His voice was soft, careful, not teasing, just present.
“Pretty much.” And maybe ten times that, and in a fraction of a second, and with multiple songs and sounds on repeat.
“That sounds ... exhausting,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. “How about this? We go inside the spa and get the lay of the land first. If it gets to be too much, we leave. No questions asked.”
I blinked, startled by the offer and the sincerity in his tone. He wasn’t bulldozing me, he just wanted me to take the first steps.
“One thing at a time,” he added, his fingers brushing mine as he took my hand, guiding me gently toward Cozy Creek Nails. The small contact sent a shiver through me, not of fear, but of reassurance. He was here. He saw me. And for the first time in a long while, I felt like maybe I could survive stepping out of my little bubble.
12
Sophie
Not only didthe salon have openings for pedicures, but they just about lost their minds when they saw Pace.
I mean, obviously. It wasn’t every day the hottest guy in town walked into a room full of women.
“Two pedis?” the woman behind the desk asked, eyes gleaming as they drifted to Pace, who was tucked not so subtly behind me.
“Yes. Please. I-I don’t have an appointment. If you’re too busy, we can come back another time.” I felt the red carpet of my tongue unfurling for a movie premiere of oversharing, when Pace’s body heat met my back. He put a hand on my shoulder, and I shut my mouth. Only then was I aware of how my body trembled. Shame washed over me, but he squeezed my shoulder, offering his presence like a life vest.
“No. Fine,” she said. “Pick color.” She waved to a wall of nail polish before turning and hurrying off.
“Were we supposed to follow her? Or should we wait here?” I glanced after her and around the room. A few people gettingmanicures looked up at me. Were they looking at me because I was looking at them? Were they curious about Pace? Or were they wondering why I hadn’t followed the woman who worked here because that was protocol?
This is what I was talking about. People always assume you knew what was expected. Everybody walked around this planet like it wasn’t their first time, and all the rules were written right there.
Pace had drifted away, and I shuffled after him.
“Oh, fun,” Pace said and wiggled his fingers at all the nail polishes lined up on the wall. “So many choices.”
I reached for a neutral pink, almost flesh color. Maybe a littletooflesh colored? Would it look like I didn’t have toenails and the skin just extended to the end?
“Go big or go home,” he said and shoved a neon orange at me, a shade usually reserved for hunting vests and construction signs.
The look on my face must have said it all for me, because he put it back on the shelf and murmured, “Maybe next time.”
I hesitated over a different light pink, again, almost the exact color of my untouched nails.
“How about we split the difference?” He held up a pretty shade of brownish orange that reminded me of the leaves that would soon change in the center of town. It had a pretty shimmer that was subtle enough it wouldn’t draw too much attention, but gave me a little thrill of something different.
I nodded. I could do that.
“Ready,” the woman said, appearing out of nowhere behind us. Was that a question or a demand?
She turned and started walking away again.
I looked to Pace helplessly. Did he understand this unwritten language? Of course he did. He grinned at me and gestured to follow her. His hand hovered right above my lower back as Ipassed him. I could feel the heat of it, so light but not quite pressing.
Walking across the salon, all the eyes tracking Pace and me were as subtle as being screamed at. Some faces were recognizable, as happens in small-town life. Pretty sure one of the women was a yarn regular of Grandma’s. Another was Mrs. Wilson, the biggest gossip in town and the mother of Vicky Lambert, a longtime antagonist in my life. Because, of course, she was here now.
Pace said hello to a few people by name (obviously) as we walked the ninehundredmiles back to the pedicure area.
