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“I think we just made everyone in here jealous,” I growl back.
She laughs again and pulls her arm free from my waist. Her fingers weave between mine. “Way to act, stud.”
Act?
Oh yeah… that’s what this is. The cloud of bliss is sort of clearing away now. I can see Danielle has moved down the table. She’s poking at that fruit salad now, talking to a guy in glasses.
“When did she—uh—leave?”
That kiss.
Wow.
My entire being’s rumbling. There’s an earthquake stirring inside me, and I’m not sure how to stop it.
I want more of her.
Olivia bites her lip.
“I’m not—um… I’m not entirely sure, actually. Lost track of things for a minute there.”
So, she got as lost in that as I did.
Or, at least, I hope she did.
If it was only me that got demolished by that kiss, I’ll feel like an idiot. Shemusthave felt that. It waselectric.
I fumble with the empty plate in my hands. She scoops her dish of fruit salad up and swivels away from me.
“Don’t forget those coffees!” she says breezily as she saunters away.
Chapter 11
Olivia
I never thought I’d be friends with Maggie Thompson. When I first met her, I figured she was out of my league, as far as friendships go. She was older than me, cooler than me, skinnier than me.
I mean, I don’t always envy thin women. But sometimes all the cultural nonsense about weight gets past my guard and I do find myself admiring thin, beautiful women.
In the looks department, Maggie’s pretty much a supermodel. She’s the kind of woman who can roll out of bed and pull on low-slung skinny jeans and a crop top and look ready for the cover of Vogue.
And she’s not just effortlessly pretty, either. She’s nice, too. The kind of nice that runs deep. The kind of nice you can feel.
This is the first chance I’ve had to get a word with her alone, and I don’t want to waste a minute of it. I pick up my tall glass of green smoothie.
“What’d you and Trent think of yin yoga?”
She emits a satisfied sigh. “It wassowhat we needed.”
“That’s great!” I can’t help but feel proud as I slurp down some of the smoothie.
My plan is working.
“I’m really glad he agreed to this,” Maggie says.
We’re seated across from each other at a rickety glass patio table. We have the back deck off the pavilion to ourselves, and the noon sun is pouring down on us like our own private heat lamp.
For the first time today, I feel warm enough to peel off my sweatshirt. I turn to hang it on the back of the wicker chair I’m folded up in.
