Page 46 of Lace 'em Up

Rory lifts her shoulder in a delicate shrug. “No,” she says. “But that is the typical conversational track that occurs when I mention working for a winery. I’m not in production itself, but I do design work—the labels, the signage, brochures, graphics for the website.” She smiles. “I get to do a little of everything.”

Not planning.

Just letting life tell her what her next task is.

Why do I feel like I’ve just unlocked some of the puzzle that is Rory?

“She’s excellent at her job,” I tell my mom. “You should see her designs.”

Those fingers tighten on my leg and I feel Rory’s eyes on me. I can’t keep my gaze from going to hers—not in a million fucking years.

“You think that?” she asks softly.

I brush her hair back from her face, tuck a loose strand behind her ear. “Absolutely.”

“Phillip—” She clamps her lips together, eyes sliding closed for a heartbeat.

I bend my head, whisper for her ears only, “That asshole had no clue how fucking amazing you are.”

She swallows hard, squeezes my thigh again and then pulls back her hand.

I know she hears me.

But she doesn’t hear me.

And I know that before all of this between us is done, I need to make sure she does.

“Tell me about teaching, Stella,” Rory says a moment later. “I bet that was the definition of a little of everything.”

My mom grins and shakes her head before picking up the conversational gambit, telling Rory some of my favorite stories about teaching and her kids and the drama that came from working for a school.

“Oh no, not the finger paint!” Rory says, laughter having her bent almost in half, her shoulder bumping into my chest.

I like that.

Like her close.

My mom nods. “Yup.” She sighs, but she’s laughing too. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a mess.”

Rory giggles. “I bet.”

“It’s just lucky I keep a change of clothes in my classroom because what I was wearing went straight into the trash.”

“Oh no!”

A shrug. “It comes with the territory,” my mom says, mouth curved. “Luckily, I was pretty good at cleaning up messes, what with six kids and all.”

“I don’t know how you did it.” Rory shakes her head. “I like kids, but a classroom full of them? And I like my clothes. I don’t think I could be calm if I lost an entire outfit to finger paint.”

I bet she could.

But I don’t say that.

I’m happy to sit here, listening to them talk about nothing important and yet everything that really matters—life and laughter and family.

“Speaking of clothes,” my mom says, “I noticed yours are in the closet in the guest room, Rory.” Her eyes flick to mine. “Is there a reason for that?”

I feel my lungs convulse.

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