Page 25 of The Match

“And are you going to use those nice ones if I sit on the porch with you?” I hate that she’s skeptical. I hate that she has a right to be. But I love the southern lilt to her voice.

I cross my heart. “The nicest.”

She brushes past me with narrowed eyes as if I’m some feral predator lying casually in the tall grass and she’s a doe, prancing by but cautious that I might pounce at any moment.

She doesn’t know just how much I want to, but not in the way she thinks.

When we make it out onto the porch, I gesture for her to sit down on the swing first. I could swear she blushes before she sits. And then a secret smile hovers on her mouth. I briefly glance at my pants, wondering if my fly is down or something.

Still zipped.

I take care to sit as far away from her on the swing as possible, but my body still hums with awareness of her. We start swinging, and the dogs settle down on the porch by the front door. It’s a deep swing, but I’m tall enough that my feet are fully planted on the ground. Evie’s toes are barely touching, and for some reason that makes me smile.

Seconds pass, or minutes, or hours, I’m not sure. All I know is that we are both quiet and sitting stiff as boards, and I’ve never felt more awkward. I steal a glance at her and find her stealing one too. I’m not alone in this awkwardness.

“Okay. What are we doing here, Jacob?” she finally asks.

“Call me Jake. Everyone else does.”

She laughs a little laugh that sounds borderline annoyed and pulls her legs up under her to face me. She’s wearing a long burgundy skirt today that’s kind of flowy and has a slit up to her knee. It’s paired with a fitted white tee, but about an hour ago she got cold and pulled a gray crewneck sweatshirt from her bag and put it on. Her hair is down and wavy like she’s been swimming in the ocean today and then let it dry in the sun. She looks casually beautiful, and yes, I realize I shouldn’t be noticing any of this, but I freaking am because I have no self-control.

“Alrighty then, Jake.” She says my name almost like she’s giving me a friendly shove to the chest. “Now I really want to know what we’re doing out here. What’s happening right now?”

I like that she’s direct. That’s not been my experience with relationships in the past. Especially not with Natalie, who one day woke up and seemed like she was a completely different person. I wonder, sometimes, if things would have been different if she’d just been honest with me about wanting more out of her life. I never even knew she had a dream of acting until she threw it in my face that she had lost that dream to raise Sam. It was so strange. Like she’d been sitting on it and feeling resentful for years but never voicing it.

If I’d known, would I have encouraged it? Or were Natalie and I always meant to break paths at some point?

“Well, Evie, this here”—I put on the same playful, sarcastic tone she’s using and gesture between us—“is called friendship. It’s a concept where two people—”

This time she really does shove me in the arm, and I break off with a chuckle. “I know what friendship is! I just want to know why you are suddenly feeling buddy-buddy with me, when it’s been clear up until this point that you don’t want me around.”

It’s time for me to be direct too. I purposely meet her gaze. “I’ve wanted you around.”

That statement cracks through the air like a bullet from a gun.

She wants to smile—I know it because there’s tension at the corners of her mouth—but she doesn’t. “You have a funny way of showing that.”

“Turns out, I’m . . . not good at having female friends since my divorce. Especially beautiful and single ones.”

She lifts a brow, barely restraining her grin. “You think I’m beautiful?”

I laugh and meet her sparkling eyes, glad to know she’s not making a run for it after what I just admitted. “Are you fishing for a compliment?” My tone is light—and probably too transparent that I’d be all too happy to shower her with them.

“Maybe. I’ve never gotten a compliment from you. I was just curious to see what one would be like.”

I think we both realize the openly flirtatious ground we just stepped into, because I drop my gaze and Evie scoots around in her seat. She shifts forward and then bunches her long hair up on her head and wraps a hair tie around it until it’s an oversized bun that somehow makes her look even cuter.

She clears her throat. “So, friend. Tell me something about yourself I don’t know.” She’s deflecting, but I can still tell that her face is flushed.

“I started my architecture firm five years ago.”

She scrunches her nose, shakes her head, then turns to fully face me on the swing. As she pulls both of her legs up under her, one of her legs brushes against mine. Her back is leaning against the armrest, and I couldn’t get away from her gaze even if I wanted to.

“I don’t want to talk work,” she says, her gaze soft. “Tell me something personal about you. Like . . . what color Skittle is your favorite?”

“I don’t like Skittles.”

Her mouth falls open. I’m a serial killer in her eyes now. “You don’t like Skittles?!” She shakes her head. “What’s wrong with you?”

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