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“We’ll get a game plan for repairs, take pictures, get in touch with insurance. You’ll feel better once you’ve got answers.” He looks straight at me. “It’s going to be okay.”
His gaze pins me in place. I can’t move, and I believe him.
The hopeless romantic in me wants to believe him because he’s back, he’s grown, and while the meet-cute was a bit fiery, there’s always the middle third where our pasts get uncovered and we get closer.
The logical pragmatist in me (the little traitor) reminds me that he left without saying goodbye, that he hasn’t changed, and that history has a way of repeating itself.
“You sure you have time for this?” I ask.
“Part of the job.”
“Right.”
“Can you leave now, or do you want to meet over there later?”
“Now is good,” I say. “If we wait, my mom might show up, and I love my mom, but I have a feeling she’s not the best person to do this with.”
My mother will gush, and overreact, and pile on, and while she means to be helpful and understanding, it will undoubtedly make me feel worse.
“Okay, you wanna tell Reagan we’re leaving?”
I have to smile. He remembered her name.
Impressive.
He turns to my jacket, hanging on a hook by the door. “This yours?”
I nod as he takes it down, then holds it open for me to slip into. I stare at him.
When I move toward him to slide my arms into the sleeves, I inhale a deep breath, like a dog locking on to the scent of a lost hiker in the woods.
I would tell myself to knock it off already, but it’s futile. And complicated.
I want to but I don’t want to. That’s the problem with hope.
And my hopeful heart stopped listening the second he pulled me to safety.
Once I’ve got my jacket on, I turn to him.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I exhale a big breath. “I just want to get this over with.”
“My truck’s out front,” he says, and as we walk out into the shop, he puts a hand around my shoulder, guiding me past some people. It almost—almost—feels like we’re together. Like we’re more than friends. I could close my eyes and imagine we’re heading out for a late breakfast, just me and my man.
But if I closed my eyes, I’d probably run into something. Best to keep my eyes open when I’m walking.
You’re mad at him, Emmy. Knock it off.
I stop and tell Reagan to hold down the fort.
“You’re leaving?” she asks. “With him?” Her eyebrows are raised like she’s impressed by this.
“Going to look at my house,” I say, hoping that puts a stop to whatever she’s trying to imply.
“Okay, boss,” she says. “Take your time. I’ll handle everything.”
I turn to go and notice people are watching. A woman standing in the fiction section raises her phone and snaps a photo. And on the opposite side of the shop, is Lindsay.
