Page 16 of The Dallas Dilemma

“No, that’s okay,” she says. “But thank you so much for fixing it for me. It looks great.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, a thread of panic slicing through my chest. “I can help put away the stuff on the top shelves.”

Her eyes brighten, and her lips twitch as she obviously fights a smile. “Are you calling me short?”

There’s nothing about her expression or body language that would infer she’s offended, so I simply smirk and say, “I prefer the term ‘vertically challenged.’”

She barks out a laugh, then nods. “Vertically challenged. I like it.”

“Please let me help,” I say after another brief pause. “I don’t have anything else to do today, and I’d feel terrible if you fell off the stool reaching for a shelf when I could’ve easily reached it for you.”

She rolls her eyes like my reasoning is ridiculous, then blows out a long breath. “Fine. But we might as well put all those muscles to work. There’s a box of real dishes in my closet.”

Her cheeks fill with color when she mentions my muscles, but she doesn’t look away or try to hide it.Progress!Josette sets what’s left of her iced tea on the counter and spins around, waving at me to follow. She leads me into her bedroom, and I take a quick peek around while she still has her back to me.

The bed is made, and everything looks neat and tidy apart from a small pile of clothes on the floor. It only takes me a second to recognize the items as the ones she was wearing when I popped over earlier.

To borrow sugar.

How lame could a guy be? I didn’t lie. Iwasout ofsugar. But I only decided I needed sweet tea after searching my kitchen for anything I could use as an excuse to knock on Josette’s door. And when I realized I didn’t have any of the sweet stuff, the idea to make a pitcher of iced tea was born.

I refocus on Josette when she opens the door to her closet. She steps back and meets my eyes, then points to a large cardboard box beneath the clothes hanging inside.

“That one,” she says. “And be careful. It’s heavy. And fragile.”

She says the word “fragile” with three syllables, pronouncing it frah-jee-lee, and I chuckle.

“Must be Italian,” I say as I step forward, and a laugh bursts out of her accompanied by the most adorable snort.

I look over my shoulder to see her slap a palm over her mouth and nose, her eyes watering as she tries to hold in another laugh. I grin at her for a couple of beats, then turn back to pick up the box. It is heavy, but nothing I can’t manage. Bending at the knees, I pick it up and back away from the closet before turning around. Josette nods and spins, leading the way back into the kitchen.

That’s oneA Christmas Storyreference for the win. And I think I’ve found something we have in common. Quoting movies in everyday life situations. I do that all the time, and if she does, too, it’ll give us something to talk and laugh about.

Talking and laughing is good. And if I can get her to snort again…

I smile widely at the thought. That just may be my new mission in life. To make Josette snort-laugh.

Setting the box on the counter, I open it up and convince Josette to just point where she wants everything and let me do the actual work. We chat as I move back and forth, and she seems more at ease now. I try to make her laugh, and while she does chuckle a few times, I’ve yet to get another one of those cute little snorts.

As I put the last of the plates away where she wants them, I turn to her and say, “The dishes are done, man.”

The quote is from an older movie, and may be a little obscure, but Josette’s face lights up as she barks out a laugh. Settling down, she nods.

“Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead.Good one.”

Warmth spreads through me as I smile back at her. Not only did she catch the reference, but it made her laugh. Made herrelax.I feel like I just won the lottery.

“What are you doing for dinner?” I ask, and her smile falters a bit, but I keep going. “I don’t feel like cooking, and I want to try one of the restaurants in town. I’d love it if you’d join me.”

Josette’s face pales, and I instantly regret my words. I pushed too hard, too fast. But then her spine stiffens, and the color rushes back into her cheeks as she nods.

“Sure. I’d love to.”

I want to whoop and pump my fist in the air, but I manage to restrain myself. Shooting her a wide grin, I nod.

“Great. Is six o’clock okay?”

“It’s perfect,” she says.

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