Page 33 of Yours Temporarily

I don’t mind treasure hunts, but I am delaying the game. Later, as Wes leads the charge into the rough in search of the rogue ball, I can imagine forming a connection with Jeremy’s friends. Already, there’s a bond over our shared laughs and frustration whenever I veer the ball off course.

As we drive our cart to the next hole, Jeremy’s shoulder nudges mine. “How are you liking golf so far?”

“It’s fun, actually. Easier than I thought.” No one ever accused me of being athletic, and I’d gladly exchange these clubs for a beater and a set of serving spoons. So this isn’t an activity I’d choose. But the fact that he invited me when he came to church with me earlier makes me feel special. He must enjoy my company as much as I enjoy his, and I’m happy to tap into his world. The afternoon sun warms my skin, and the breeze ruffles my hair. “So this is how you spend your Sunday afternoons?”

“Wes and Nico can’t seem to play without me. I’m left with no choice.”

Nico cranes his neck and shouts from ahead. “Remember, Zuri, the loser buys dinner!” While his competitive streak is evident, his sense of fun underpins the game.

I’ll definitely be footing the dinner bill, my fleeting streak of beginner’s luck having deserted me on too many holes. When we wrap up our game, they ask me to choose a restaurant, but today isn’t about me. It’s about tapping into Jeremy’s world, including his favorite hangouts. So I hold up both hands. “Please take me wherever you guys prefer to dine.”

“It’s time to introduce you to Romano’s.” Nico winks. “I never win, so I rarely qualify to choose where we eat.”

Romano’s turns out to be an Italian restaurant, and fresh vegetables heap an entire table on the side. The man behind the glass-covered pastries greets us, his accent thick. He smiles when he calls Nico and addresses him in what I assume to be Italian.

A dark-haired middle-aged woman greets us and leads us to our seats. From the music, the workers, and the enticing scents of garlic, pesto, pizza, and freshly baked bread, I feel like I’ve stepped into a theater of Italy in San Francisco.

As we settle into the eatery’s rustic charm, a server not in uniform brings us water and allows us time to peruse the menu.

This restaurant must be family-owned if no one is wearing a uniform. But oh, snap! My eyes all but go wide as I study the menu. For a simple restaurant, the prices are steep.

As if Jeremy can read me, he leans in, and his warm breath whispers against my ear. “I’ve got this covered.”

“But I lost,” I protest, caught between gratitude and keeping the rules of the game.

“And you played well.” His hand touches my arm.

“For the love of dinner, just accept,” Nico says, scanning the flat menu. Apparently, he’s not one to miss anything. “What kind of man do you think Jeremy would be to let his girl buy dinner for all of us?”

His girl. Excitement thrills me. Is this what he calls me when he’s with his friends? For the last two weeks, we’ve hung out at least ten times, including the day I invited him to watch the Superbowl with us. So, yes, we’ve seen each other almost daily, mostly to discuss different financial strategies and business planning for my café. Still, there’s always such casual banter, and it ends with a quick bite together. We’ve tried to steer away from romance, but every so often, we get caught in heated glances. And many times, we’ve almost kissed when he drops me off at home. He already paid for the fridge and furniture. The fridge was delivered on Friday, and the furniture will be delivered in two weeks. Time has flown, and we’re already at the end of February.

The server returns to take our orders.

I settle for pizza, and Jeremy does too. Wes orders soup and salad, and Nico orders spaghetti. Before they bring the food, Wes reads the pamphlet and facts about Italy, then quizzes us.

“I’ll be cheating if I answer.” Nico rocks back in his chair, and clasps his hands behind his head, leaving Jeremy and me to respond.

We then talk about the day’s game, and they share stories of their golfing adventures. I listen, laughing along, feeling more and more a part of this circle of friends. The delicious food brings a perfect end to an enjoyable day.

But one of the moments I cherish most is the simmering anticipation that builds as Jeremy drives me home. Unspoken words always zap between us in those final minutes in the driveway. Our gazes meet, flitting between each other’s eyes and lips, ensnared in a mutual struggle of what-ifs and maybes.

Tonight, the routine’s even more charged. As I clutch my purse in my lap, my resolve wanes under his steady gaze. His scent, a comforting blend of sandalwood and a hint of rosemary, dominates the car. The porch and garage lights filter through the windows, casting us in a delicate dance of shadow and light. My gaze, almost of its own accord, drifts to his lips, sparking a flurry of thoughts about a kiss yet shared.

His chest rises and falls, his polo clinging to his broad shoulders. Then he breaks the silence with a sigh. “Well, I’m glad you hung out with me today.”

So the evening has come to an end.

“Yeah.” I swallow my disappointment as my fingers brush against the door handle, ready to exit the world we’ve created. In a burst of urgency, Jeremy leaves the car and rounds to my side. I’ve already stepped out, and we nearly crash into one another.

His hand finds its way to my waist, and he pulls me into an unexpected embrace. My heart races—or is that the echo of his? I grip my purse as if it’s the only anchor in a storm and fold my other arm across myself, creating a barrier. After the dance in January where passion flared only to be doused by his withdrawal, I dare not let my guard down again.

“Hey.” He breathes out, his voice a rumble that vibrates through the space between us. His chin dips to meet my gaze, his breath feathers against my lips, and shivers slither down my spine. I brace for more. My eyes close in anticipation, and my body tenses, then relaxes as his lips graze my cheek instead. The gentle, almost-kiss isn’t what I’d hoped for, yet it leaves a trail of warmth in its wake.

“Good night, Zee.” He steps back, the distance between us widening once more. His gaze lingers on me, a silent conversation in its depths.

“Good night, Jer.” My voice barely rises above a whisper as our momentary closeness leaves bittersweetness on my tongue. What would it take for him to break the barriers he’s set, to turn our pretense into something real?

The fleeting contact on my cheek only intensifies my longing. Now, with every step I take away from him, the tantalizing possibility of a real kiss teases me. What would it feel like? Reaching the door, I steal a glance backward, half-expecting him to be waiting as he usually does until I’m safely inside. But today, he drives off.

---