She steps closer, still breathing hard. “Big words for a man in wet jeans.”
“Big talk for a woman in see-through clothing.”
Her eyes widen. She looks down. “Oh!”
“Here.” I gesture vaguely at the door. “There are towels inside.”
“I can’t go in your house like this!”
“You also can’t stand on my porch like that unless you want to give the contractors a show.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, which only makes things worse—or better, depending on your perspective.
“This is your fault,” she mutters.
“My fault? My sprinklers are on a timer. A consistent, predictable timer.”
“You could have warned me sooner!”
“I did warn you!”
“Six seconds is not a warning!”
We’re arguing about sprinklers, but there’s something else happening. Something in the way she looks at me, water droplets catching on her eyelashes. Something in the way I can’t stop noticing the goosebumps on her arms.
“Towels,” I say roughly. “Inside. Now.”
She nods, suddenly no longer arguing.
I hold the door open, and she ducks inside, careful not to brush against me.
Except she does—just barely. Wet skin against wet skin, and damn if that doesn’t send heat straight through me despite the cold water.
“Dean?”
“Mm?”
“Your parents are in your living room.”
I freeze. “What?”
“Your. Parents. Are. In. Your. Living. Room.”
I push past her to see, and—yeah, there they are. My mother in her standard Connecticut casual, my father in golf clothes, both staring at us like we’re a particularly interesting exhibit at the zoo.
Oh, and they’ve brought the dogs.
“Dean, sweetheart,” my mother says, her voice dripping with false surprise. “We thought we’d drop by to discuss the wedding arrangements.”
“At seven-thirty in the morning?”
“We were in the neighborhood.”
“You live an hour away.”
“Don’t be dramatic.” She turns her attention to Poppy, and her smile sharpens. “And you must be the wedding planner.”
Poppy, to her credit, doesn’t even flinch. She stands there, dripping on my hardwood floors like this is totally normal.
