Page 70 of Friends Don't Kiss

“I think they’re trying to tell us something,” Colton says as the lights inside the lodge are being turned off. We’re the last people outside at the bonfires, too… He stands and pulls me out of the Adirondack, and I stiffen, hating myself a little for it, but unable to fight the reflex.

But as soon as I’m up, he lets go of my hand and clears our tray. Then he insists on carrying my snowboard with his and walks me to my car, loading it inside for me.

When he’s done and I’ve shoved my helmet and gloves in the car, I stand tall, waiting for what’s next.

He bores his gaze into my eyes and says, “Thanks for the date, Kiara. I hope you liked it as much as I did.”

Okay. I was expecting more, but at the same time—maybe not? I’m so confused right now. Why isn’t he asking me if I want to go somewhere next? If only for a nightcap at his place.

But no, he simply leans over and kisses my cheek. “Drive safe.”

The feel of his lips burns like bitter disappointment as I start the ice-cold car. I don’t even feel like starting a playlist. The silence is loud enough for my thoughts, filled with the words he said at the bonfire.

On the drive home, I don’t see his lights following me. Could he have left before me and already be at Sunrise Farms? But when I pull up to our parking lot, his truck isn’t there.

And his locker dangles partly open and mostly empty when I store my equipment. I feel… suspended. As if for this situation I’m in, I need instructions.

After I shower, I glance outside to the parking lot. Still no sign of Colton’s truck.

My heartbeat accelerates, and I pick up my phone. Could something have happened to him on the way back? Instead of texting Colton directly, I open up the app, more as a joke.

Me: Are you okay?

Nigel: Great!

Me: …

Me:Where are you?

Me: …

Nigel: Everything OK with you?

Me: …

Me: Where are you?

Nigel: Goodnight

The next day, I’m already up and working on new creations for Valentine’s Day when the intercom rings. It’s barely seven in the morning. Peering down through the blinds, I see Randy’s delivery van, lights on and engine running.

I don’t remember an order we might have worked on. We often collaborate on decorating cakes, especially for weddings, or fill orders of chocolates and flowers together. Wondering what he could possibly want that couldn’t be handled over the phone, I let him in.

He hands me a bouquet of chamomiles, lavender, and violas tied with twine and plucked in a mason jar.

There’s a note that says:Would love to do this again—Colton.

Randy is still standing in the entrance of my flat when I fold the note back into its envelope, my cheeks warming at Colton’s written words. “They’re all edibles,” Randy thinks necessary to point out. “He had me order them specially.”

I can’t help the smile building inside me. “Thanks, Randy. That’s really sweet of you.”

“I-I’m just following orders. But I’ve never seen Colton so specific in his orders.”

My smile sours a bit, but I fight to hide it. “He orders a lot of flowers?” I ask, taking the bouquet to my coffee table so my back is temporarily to Randy’s. I can’t have him see the jealousy slowly building inside me.

“For his ma, yes. He gets her a bouquet each month. It’s his Christmas gift. He gives her like a pretend fancy voucher at Christmas that says ‘Twelve Bouquets’ or something like that.”

“That’s sweet!” The word is weak, far from what I’m feeling.

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