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“How about because you’ve got nothing in common. Less than nothing.” He coughs into his hand, like he’s doubting me in the extreme. “A McCoy and a Crane? I don’t see it.”
“Well, look again.” I slip my arm through Spencer’s. As we link elbows, and my hand slides along his forearm, warmth spreads to my fingers. It’s a swell of heat that’s almost as strange as Spencer offering to order one of everything.
He gazes down at me, both brows arched above his glasses. His lashes are so thick and long, they almost brush the lenses. I expect to see sarcasm or shock filling his eyes, but no. They’re soft. Dark.
Grateful.
Huh.
“You don’t owe Frank any explanations,” he says. His voice is gruff, and he seems a whole lot taller, with our arms linked like this. Sure we’ve goofed around before, and a group of us danced together at the gala, but I’ve never stood this close to him. Not with our eyes locked.
His grip is strong, and he pulls me in another inch. Suddenly I don’t feel so much like a boulder. I’m not careening down a mountain. Out of control. Ungainly. I’m a stone, skipping over the water. Cool and smooth and lighter than air.
That is until the bell above the door of the coffee shop jingles, and Mrs. Lockhart strides in.
She’s wearing another pantsuit, except this one is sky blue. Her platinum hair is still swept up high, but her ruby red clutch completes the patriotic color scheme. The mayor is a red, white, and blue popsicle. A bomb pop about to explode my life.
One week ago, I was promising Mrs. Lockhart there’s absolutely nothing between Spencer and me—a zero percent chance that any feelings would develop between us, ever, ever, ever.
Now we’re arm in arm. And my cheeks are pink. And Frank and Alice are standing next to us. This looks like a double date if I’ve ever seen one. I can practically feel the director job slipping through my fingers.
Mrs. Lockhart’s eyes shift from me to Spencer. “Well, well. What do we have here?”
