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“Oh, come on,” she interrupted. “Would you deny a woman her last dying wish?”
Reagan laughed as she shook her head. “But you’re not dying!”
Peggy put a hand on her replaced hip. “I’m eighty-five. I could die at any minute! For all you know this could be the last thing I taste. Do you really want to send me to meet Saint Peter with stevia on my lips?”
Her willpower eroded to nothing, and she pulled out the real sugar packet she’d grabbed for her as a precaution.
“Don’t tell the others,” she whispered. “You know how Horace gets.”
Peggy’s dull blue eyes gleamed. She loved mischief so much Reagan couldn’t imagine what she’d been like in her twenties. As she sipped the potent, black drink, she closed her eyes and savored it.
“How many of your dying wishes do you think I’ve granted by now?” Reagan asked.
Peggy peeked out of one open eye. “Are you including the time you took me and the other girls to the all-male review?”
Reagan laughed. The image of musclebound men in G-strings flashed in her mind. “Definitely.”
The old woman shrugged. “More than a few. No more talk of kicking the bucket. Tell me about that nice young girl that was here this weekend. I saw the way you two were making googly eyes at each other. Is she a new sweetheart? There hasn’t been one around here since—”
“Yes, actually. She might be pretty special.” It didn’t sound like a lie.
“I knew it.” Peggy wagged a gnarled finger at her as she discarded her tiny co ee cup as the others flittered in slowly.
“The last time I looked at someone like that I married him.”
Full of sugar and ca eine, Peggy left her standing alone with her thoughts. Maybe their acting was better than either of them realized.
When everyone had finished eating and were set up at their stations, Reagan settled at her table at the front and had them grab one of the little balls of clay she’d already prepared for them. Following her lead, they rolled out long, thin coils. At the end of the session, they’d have a bowl whose shape was limited only by their creativity.
As Reagan worked the cool material, her mind drifted as it tended to do when she hand built. It didn’t require the
concentration that throwing on the wheel did.
Moments later, her thoughts landed on Libby and the texts from that morning. She’d only realized how flirty they’d been when she’d reread them. She’d gotten a little carried away, but she hadn’t been the one to start it, right?
The coiled lengths of clay snaked around the base and climbed up to shape an oval bowl. Reagan’s thoughts rushed with images of Libby’s smile, her long neck exposed when she threw her head back and laughed. The way her skin was soft against her lips and how easily she fit under her arm.
Don’t do this to yourself.
Libby had been loud and clear when they’d first met. She wasn’t ready or interested in dating. Not for real. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Reagan argued with herself.
Her actions say otherwise.
Somewhere in her core, Reagan wasn’t convinced Libby was just playing at liking her. She’d noticed the goosebumps on her arm, the warmth on her cheeks. She couldn’t be that good a faker as to force a physiological response to her touch.
Debating whether or not their meeting later was a real date, Reagan reminded herself of a hard and inconvenient truth. She’d done this before. Seeing the person behind the walls built for self-protection was a gift, but also a curse. She had no way of knowing just how high the walls went.
Sometimes she saw beyond barriers and baggage people weren’t ready to shed.
A question from one of her students jarred her out of her reverie. Shaking o her worry, Reagan reminded herself to stay in the moment. No use in overthinking it. Their time together would be what it would be whether she worried about it or not. She’d learned long ago to divorce herself from expectation.
She’d show up at Libby’s door open to where the night might take them. At least that’s what she told herself every time her chest tightened, and her stomach fluttered.
C H A P T E R 1 5
LIGHTING the last of a few scented candles scattered around her condo, Libby checked her hair in the bathroom mirror for a third time. Waves weren’t working thanks to an unexpected drop in humidity, but she’d straightened it and left it loose just above her shoulders.
Hidden behind her closet doors were the few dozen outfits she’d tried on and discarded in a pile on the floor. They were all either too dressy or too causal. Despite a packed walk-in closet, she didn’t have anything appropriate for a non-date at her house. Usually, she’d recommend something simple and relaxed for the first date at home. But she reminded herself, this wasn’t a date.
