Page 49 of Better Luck Next Time

That wasn’t what he was trying to do, was it?

No, hedidwant to help her, though—he needed to in some strange way. But she was right about one thing: he could be a little pushy at times. In business, it helped him get ahead, but this wasn’t business, and Adalia wasn’t the kind of woman who liked being told what to do.

“I know that,” he said. “And I’m sorry for interfering. I guess I really am the sort of busybody who forms strong opinions about people he doesn’t know. And isn’t smart enough to keep them to himself.”

“Busybody?” she asked, drawing his gaze, and he saw one corner of her mouth had tipped up.

“That’s what you’re latching onto?” he asked.

“Count yourself lucky.”

“Oh, I do,” he said.

They sat in mostly comfortable silence for another couple of minutes, until he pulled into the parking lot for the studios.

It was a large red brick building in the River Arts District, an intricate mural painted on one side.

“These are all studios?” Adalia asked in a small voice. She was watching the building with wide eyes, her hand gripped around the door handle but not moving to open it.

He reached for her other hand, realizing this was different for her than it was for him. The building was some kind of art mecca, and being here was loaded in a way a visit to the nutty goat whisperer hadn’t been. “Yeah. Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

She looked down at his hand on top of hers, but she didn’t remove it. Glancing back at him, she said, “I wouldn’t miss meeting Enid for the world. Let’s go.”

But she still didn’t move his hand. It was almost like she was waiting for him to do something. Did she want him to kiss her? Would she be mad if he did?

Because she licked her lips, and he found his eyes following the progress of her tongue, his body reacting as if he’d seen something much more erotic.

Yeah, the wholejust friendsplan was suffering some setbacks.

You’re being selfish again,a voice advised him.You’re thinking of what you want, not what she needs.

And it was that voice that drove him out of the car. He went around to open her door, but she was already out.

“Why do you Southerners think a woman can’t open a car door all by herself?”

She sounded a little pissed, but he had a feeling it wasn’t about the door.

“Aren’t you technically from the South?” he asked wryly. “Beau was a North Carolinian, born and bred.”

“Sure, but I hardly knew him.” She shot him a look as they walked toward the building, some of her sassiness reappearing. “I saved us last time, so you’re in charge of the exit strategy when things inevitably go south.”

“Is that so?” he asked, opening the door to the building.

She rolled her eyes as she walked through. “Yeah, that’s so.”

He looked at the directory, seeing Enid was located in a studio to the left, last door down.

“First floor,” Adalia commented. “Easy getaway.”

“If the other exit isn’t blocked,” Finn said, pointing to an exit sign on that side of the building.

“Good point. We don’t know the lay of the land.” She bent over the directory, studying it like it was a crib sheet for a test.

A woman walked past them, her dark, curly hair pulled back in a colorful scarf. Finn couldn’t place her, but he knew he’d seen her before. She was lovely in a way that would have usually inspired him to angle for her number, but he felt no pull toward her. No interest. She glanced at him, an assessing glance, then continued on down the hall.

“Let’s go,” he said, reaching for Adalia’s hand. When she gave it to him—acting like it was no big deal, this holding hands thing—he felt a surge of triumph in his chest, a feeling better than winning first place at last year’s Brewfest.

They walked like that, hand in hand, until they reached the door at the end of the hall. It was open, albeit barely, communicating the message that the artist was prepared for visitors but perhaps didn’t want to be disturbed by loud walkers.

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