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She smiles against my skin. “My dad used to say ‘cold nose, warm heart.’”
“I thought it was cold hands.”
“Cold something.”
We’re quiet, listening to the sounds of the night. “You never talk much about your dad.” She lifts her head. “Do you miss him?”
I consider this. I want to say always…
“When I was young, he’d take me fishing. He’d tell me his thoughts on things… I thought this feels right. I guess I identified with him the most.”
“When you were young… You don’t anymore?”
My stomach turns. I typically avoid this memory lane. “I’ll never understand what he did. How he could leave us when we needed him the most.”
The cicadas scree louder, and she moves my hand to her lap. “Maybe what you thought you identified with was really your mom. The way she looked after you, made sure you were always safe and fed.”
My mom is a gentle memory that tugs at my heart. What happened to her seems so unfair. I think about Noel and how she’s so impulsive, how quickly she acts on her emotions, like my dad apparently did.
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I can’t even imagine… You were forced to grow up overnight.” She blinks up, big green eyes, cute little nose. “I don’t even remember you as a kid.”
“I remember you as a kid.”
Her lips press together, and she sits higher, putting our faces on the same level. “I’m not a kid now.”
“It’s true. You’re not.”
Her eyes go to my lips, and I’m ready to kiss her. I’m ready to do a lot more with her. Reaching out, I slide my palm along her cheek. She tilts her head to the side and closes her eyes. Something’s on my mind, though.
“Look at me.” My thumb tugs at her full lip. “What’s the deal with Deacon? Is he in love with you?”
Her brows scrunch together, and her head pulls back. “He’s helping me with my business plan.”
I keep hearing this about him. “What?
?s your business plan?”
She clears her throat, taking my hand in hers and lowering it to her lap. “I want to own my own design firm. But I don’t know if that’s possible here, if the town’s too small.”
“So… He’s changing the size of the town?”
Her eyes meet mine, but she doesn’t answer me, so I ask her. “Last Christmas you said you were going to Dallas. Is that still something you want to do?”
“Is that something you want me to do?”
No.
“I want you to do what makes you happy. Don’t live your life trapped here… for whatever reason.” My chest is tight, and I’m angry, which isn’t fair to her.
“I can’t tell if you’re talking to me or you.” Her voice is defiant, and I don’t like her calling me out.
“I’m talking to you. I don’t like flaky women. Make up your mind and go for it.”
“I’ve never been flaky in my life.” She sits back, giving my arm a shove. “I don’t like bossy farmers who can’t talk about their feelings.”
“I’m not a farmer.”
