Page 36 of Forget Me Knot

WILFRED

DINAH

Every time I interact with any iteration of J. Jones, I feel myself grow more intrigued and more attracted to whichever version I’m with. Yeah, I can admit the absurdity of the situation. I might be falling for two men who happen to be the same man, but in the same token, aren’t at all.

I’ve gone on two dates now with Jackson. Dates where we flirted easily, fell into conversation without preamble or difficulty, and where I felt as if I were spending time with an old friend. Every touch lit with excitement and anticipation and a playfulness I haven’t experienced before.

This first date with Jack, if that’s what you can call it—which I most certainly will when I’m busy romanticizing it later with Emory—feels different. Maybe it’s because I feel as if I’m getting to know him more and more beyond just the guarded, gruff man who doesn’t give away his smiles as easily. Likely some of that has to do with the information I’ve gathered from Jackson and subsequently stored away like precious jewels I feel privileged to know.

But so much of the giddy nerves and attraction I feel right now, preparing dough for tomorrow, is rooted in the man who showed up on my worst day simply because my music changed. Who played playlist tag and delivered mind-blowing donuts to say he was sorry. Yes, he grumbles and pushes people away, but he’s also the man who suffers in silence with pain and, I suspect, loneliness, because he doesn’t want to be a burden to his friends and family.

Every smile I garner from this version of him feels like I’ve run a marathon and taken first place. Every touch and taste of nearness is filled with electricity that I’m positive will end with my combustion. He—Jack—feels right. Solid. A mystery I’m beginning to solve, piece by piece.

He feels inevitable.

“I honestly underestimated how much work goes into this.” He’s learning how to knead the dough, something he clearly has never done before. With every sticky touch, Jack pulls it off his fingers and tries again.

I can’t help but laugh at his efforts to clean his hands. “You can’t be afraid to get a little messy. Dough is temperamental, but it isn’t delicate.” I sprinkle more flour over his portion and hover my hands over his. “Do you mind?”

His head gives the barest of shakes, mouth pinched shut, and I wonder if he brings this intensity into every endeavor. Does each breathtaking flower arrangement I’ve seen taken from his shop receive the same acute attention and fierce devotion?

“You don’t want to be too gentle or too rough. Don’t be afraid to put pressure on it.” I step in front of him so that his arms are encircling me, and I boldly place my hand on his, pressing them into the dough. We knead it smoothly, pushing it into the stainless steel countertop with the heels of our hands, then folding and pulling it closer before starting it again. “It should be stretchy but not sticky. Like this.”

I pull a piece off and show him how it looks when I pull it apart gently and then press it between my thumb and pointer finger. “The elasticity tells me the gluten is worked in well. But if you work it too much, it gets hard and can’t be used.”

“And we want the gluten?” he says, though it barely registers, because all I can focus on is where his words run their course softly against my neck.

“Yes. We want the gluten.” My throat feels clogged, and my voice doesn’t sound like my own. “Gluten means perfectly, chewy pretzels.”

“What flavors will these be?” he asks, and without relinquishing me, he pushes that ball of dough we were working on to the side and slides another to our station, resuming the kneading together.

I do incredible mental math for someone who’d rather devote all her brainpower to loftier pursuits at the moment. Like, how do I get this man to rub my feet the way he’s rubbing my pretzel dough. Or my shoulders. What else can he do with those hands? And, whoa, are my thoughts going a little rogue for ten a.m. on a Monday morning.

Running my mind through the plans for tomorrow’s menu, I list off flavors like a woman not currently hot and bothered.

“Honey Mustard. Chocolate Chip with Cherry Pie Dipping Sauce. And…”

“And?” He breathes against my cheek, and both our hands stall. He’s bracketing me against the counter, hands resting on mine. The shift in the air is palpable.

“And, um…”

Jack seems to hold his breath as he lifts his hand up from mine, reaches up and gently arranges the stubborn piece of hair falling into my eyes to sit behind my ear. It feels a little like he’s asking me to turn.

Here, I made it easy for you, Polly. Take a look.

When I feel brave enough to peek at Jack’s face, my eyes narrow in on the absolutely delectable curve of his lips. Of his Adam's apple, bobbing once, and the light trace of facial hair growing along his jaw. They continue their leisurely trail up to meet Jack’s hazel eyes searching mine with a question:

Isn’t dough-making sexy?

The answer, of course, is yes. Yes, it is.

A celebratory parade stomps through my body. There’s a marching band, fireworks, candy throwing, and everything. It’s a real spectacle, because I’m pretty sure J. Jones is about to set his luscious lips on mine, and I am here for it. He leans closer, waiting to see if I’ll resist.

I root my feet to the hardwood and stand my ground. I'm ready, and I’m not goin’ anywhere.

“Dinah—”

His phone rings to the tune of “Pressing Flowers” by the Civil Wars, a song on mydown dayplaylist, and my heart grows three sizes in my chest. The lock screen changed, too, and is no longerbaseball kitty. Now it’s just a simple graphic with the wordsSilence, Solitude,andSafe.Some sort of mantra typed like a list.

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