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I glance up.
Naomi.
She saunters from the bathrooms, purse slung over her shoulder, long hair in a bun, slim black pants covering her bandage and stitches. Her dark eyes do a sweep of me, from my shoes to the top of my collared shirt. The abs I worked on this morning flex in response.
Wordless, she slides into line, in front of me as usual. Her sleeveless, coral blouse is as beachy as the island scent that hits me. I wonder what it would be like to wake up to her feminine smell on my sheets and skin. I wonder if she tastes like a vacation, like sunshine and freedom and letting loose.
I wonder
I wonder
I wonder
All my life, all I’ve done about Naomi James is wonder, never once following through on my pent-up attraction.
When Mrs. Jackson, who runs quilting classes in her home, moves forward in line, I tense. In the past, I’d be seething, on the edge of fury, knowing Naomi was one second away from lighting my fuse. Today, I’m worried she’ll step forward.
I want the antagonism.
I want the game.Ourgame.
Her head tilts slightly to the right. She shifts on her feet and adjusts her purse…and she doesn’t move.
I grin so wide my cheeks hurt.
Inching closer, I bend toward her ear. “The person in front of you moved.”
She remains immobile, all but the goose bumps descending her neck. “I’m aware.”
As am I, of the way her perfume inflames my senses. Heat tightens my groin. “How do you live with yourself?”
I can’t see her face, but I sense her smile. “I thrive on the discomfort of others.”
“At this rate, you’ll be immortal.”
A surprising sound escapes her. An actuallaugh. She angles her head, giving me that alluring chin, those hoop earrings, the corner of her feline eye. “I’ll never tire of reliving how the steam billows from your ears when you’re annoyed.”
My next inhale is more weighted. Deep enough to have my chest brushing her back. My fingers flex. An unconscious move to reach out and touch her, pull her closer, erase the distance between us and the mistakes I’ve made. Mistakes I’m tired of reliving, including the most important one: never asking Naomi out.
As a teen, I was in self-preservation mode. As we got older, I was annoyed with her over our misunderstandings. I’ve been jealous over the men she’s dated, never fully admitting it to myself until last night. Not acting on my attraction now would be foolish. This connection, whatever it is, has never gone away. Ignoring her pull would only intensify it. Living with that kind of regret isn’t a bitter pill I care to swallow.
The line moves forward again. Naomi continues to hold her villainous stance, which is no longer so irksome. This game of ours is almost…fun.
Gathering the courage I didn’t have seven years ago, I dip my head back down toward her ear, and say, “Go out with me, Naomi. Let me take you on a date.”
Her body shudders. Mine is stiff, on the edge of anticipating her reply. She turns her head slightly, a hesitant move that has her lips nearly grazing my jaw.
I desperately want to kiss her. Here. Now.
I want to rip off her blouse, drag down those slim pants, finally know how it feels to be surrounded by Naomi, push into her, unleash our suppressed angst as we sweat and thrust and tell each other the things we’ve never said.
She straightens her posture and lifts her chin. “Now’s not a good time,” is all she says.
She marches forward in line, leaving me standing there like an idiot. Rejected. As I always predicted, but we were just flirting. It was two-sided. Or am I so blind when it comes to Naomi I can’t even discern flirting from friendliness?
When she moves to order her coffee and eventually leaves the shop without bothering to glance at me, I finally exhale. At least I tried. I won’t live with regrets, wondering if she’s the chance I didn’t take.
The door chimes. Ricky comes in as I gather my coffee and try to shirk my disappointment. “I heard you had an interesting car passenger last night,” he says, smug.
