Page 50 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess

Although…it’s cute on Dex too, which makes absolutely no sense.

“I don’t doubt it,” he says.

I sigh. “I just miss his snuggles.”

“Well,” Dex says slowly. “We’re pretending to be dating, so—”

I burst out laughing and whack him in the gut with the back of my hand. “I’m not going to snuggle you,” I say.

He laughs, too. “No, I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to—” He breaks off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was going to ask if I could hug you. Or hold you. Because you seem like you could use it. That’s all.”

“I—oh.” It’s not a great response, but I’m too caught off guard. So I just keep looking at him, trying to figure out what’s going on here.

He shrugs, defensive. “I don’t know,” he says in answer to my unspoken question. “It's just, you take care of Archer, but who takes care of you? So I thought—whatever. Forget it. It was dumb.” His cheeks are red, and he looks away.

“No,” I say softly. “That would be—” I break off, clearing my throat. “I mean, I would like that.” I nudge his shoulder with mine. “If the offer still stands.”

I feel some of the tension leave his body as he relaxes next to me. “Yeah, of course. Since we’re pretending, might as well take advantage.”

My response flies out of my mind as his arm slides around me, pulling me into his side. I sit there awkwardly for a second, tensely, before letting myself relax and rest my head on his shoulder.

“See?” he says, his voice light. “Just a side hug.”

I nod, swallowing. “This is acceptable.” I’m keenly aware of the way our sides are pressed together, of the heat of his body, of his warm hand just over my hip.

Of his fingertips on the sliver of skin where my shirt has ridden up ever so slightly.

Just a friend,I think to myself, taking a deep, steadying breath.A friend who cares that you’re sad and respects your love for your child, but a friend nonetheless. No crushes here.

“So we should probably hold hands when we meet my mother,” he says into the silence. “And then when we sit, I should probably put my arm around you.” He pauses and then goes on, “I realize it might sound like I’m hitting on you right now, but I promise I’m not. I just want you to be aware and to make sure you’re on board.”

I nod. “I’m on board.”

Dex inhales deeply before letting out his breath. “Good,” he says, rubbing his hand absentmindedly up and down my back. It feels nice—not that I’m going to tell him that. “In that case,” he goes on, “are you ready to meet my mother? We’re supposed to have brunch with her in”—he checks his watch—“twenty minutes.”

Right. His mother. That thought acts like a big bucket of ice water over my head, and I shift out of his grasp with a grimace.

This should be fun.

Eleven

Dex

I ama firm believer that all bodies are beautiful. Whether a woman is tall or short, thin or curvy, she can still be confident and gorgeous.

That being said, I have to admit…Maya has a body thatbegsto be held. She’s soft in all the right places, no bony elbows or jutting ribs. Just…softness. It’s intoxicating, and I’m still thinking about it after she’s scooted out of my arms.

This, obviously, is not ideal. So I force my mind back to the crossword puzzle I was doing just last night. A seven-letter word forhave a meeting. A four-letter word forBPOE members.These are the things I ponder while staring at the floor to avoid looking at Maya, who is digging in her bag.

“What should I wear?” she asks, standing up and looking at me. “By which I basically mean, how fancy do I need to be? Can I wear nice jeans with heels and a nicer shirt?”

“That should be fine,” I say, nodding and finally giving her all of my attention. Then, frowning, I say, “You know, I don’t think I usually see you in jeans.” Just the once when we were working on her tire, if I remember correctly.

She shrugs, going back to her suitcase. “I prefer skirts or yoga pants or palazzo pants. Mostly skirts, though. And I rarely wear heels.”

“Well, go ahead and get dressed. I’ll be out there,” I say, nodding to the small living area just past the bedroom door. Without waiting for her response, I stand and make my way out of the room, meandering aimlessly for a moment or two. I stop in front of each picture on the wall—all vaguely Impressionistic paintings of beaches and cottages and seashells—but my mind isn’t taking any of them in. Instead I’m running through a mental catalogue of ways my mother could make this brunch uncomfortable for me or for Maya.

She might be perfectly polite, of course. Although Nancy is almost always polite on the surface. But she employs a myriad of facial expressions and voice tones that can add less-polite depth to her words. I have no doubt she’ll be nosy about Maya and about our relationship, so I’m going to have to work hard to counter any unwanted questions. Especially because I know Maya isn’t the kind of woman my mother envisions me settling down with.

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