Page 60 of When In Doubt

“Why don’t you just get it over with?” He inspects the collar, like he wants to take in every detail. “Why not do one project at a time?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” I tut. “Didn’t your mother teacher you anything? You never ask questions like that.”

“My mom makes one thing at a time,” he says a little indignantly.

“I don’t believe that for a second.” I scoff. “I bet if you go looking you’ll find half-finished pieces all over that house.”

“You think I’d go rifling through my mother’s things? How long are you gonna act like I’m some kind of delinquent?”

“A few more months at least.” I giggle.

“Lucky me.” He winks and I feel a flush of heat chase across my skin.

“Or at least until Joyce runs me out of town.” I smirk.

“What’s her problem?”

“I don’t know!” I throw my hands up. The whole thing is driving me crazy, it would be great if she could just have it out with me. At least I’d finally know what her deal is. “She doesn’t like that I’ve taken over the florist, but I thought she didn’t even like Elsie?”

“She just misses their arguments,” he says thoughtfully. “It probably spiced up her days.”

“If she’s picked me as her next nemesis, she’ll be disappointed.” I roll my eyes. “I’m way too much of a pushover to put up a satisfying fight.”

“You’re not a pushover,” he protests. “You give me shit all the time!”

I wave him away. “That’s just you, you don’t count.”

Oscar clutches his chest like I’ve pierced him with an arrow. “I can’t believe you’d say that to me!”

“Wait, no!”

“God, you drive a woman to Denver⁠—”

“Stop it.” I can’t stop the laughter that escapes.

“You unpack all her craft fair stuff.”

“Oscar, I swear to God⁠—”

“But you knock over one display and suddenly you ‘don’t count.’”

“Oscar!” I draw out his name on a groan, dropping my head to the desk. His warm chuckles wash over me and before I realize what’s happening, I feel a weight on the back of my head. Oscar’s palm cradles my skull for a long moment, the two of us falling silent as he swipes over the shell of my ear with the tip of one finger. I don’t dare move, not wanting to do anything that could make this stop. His hand is warm, and there’s something comforting about the press of it. But all to soon he seems to regain his composure and snatches it back, blowing out a harsh breath.

I lift my head slowly, just in time to catch him flexing his fingers against the denim of his jeans. The silence stretches between us like a spiderweb; taut, fragile, ready to be broken with a single push, but neither of us willing to be the one to do it.

“Don’t let Joyce run you out of town,” he eventually says, ducking his head a little to meet my eyeline. “I’d miss you if you were gone.”

“You would?” I hate the hopeful note in my voice, the idea of someone missing me a novelty.

“Can’t have you forgetting about me again.”

“I wouldn’t forget you,” I murmur. I don’t think I could ever forget Oscar. Even if we never speak again, if I didn’t see him for thirty years. His coffee eyes, that smile you really have to work for—it scares me how much they’re etched on my brain, like they’ve become essential to me.

“Actually, Freya, can I ask you something?” He says it slowly, carefully.

I look at him and he’s frowning, like he’s having an argument with himself.

“Okay?” I say hesitantly.