Page 70 of Someone to Have
I grab my stuff, then tell David I’ll be back in an hour.
“Okay,” he says, holding up his phone so the camera lens is aimed at Eric. “I’m just checking my social media feed.”
I’m pretty sure he’s taking more pictures of Eric.
“Why did that dude keep snapping photos of me?” Eric asks as we head out the back door.
“He’s a hockey fan.” I cough to cover a laugh as I pull on my mittens. “So where are we heading, and why do you need a tool belt for the trip?” I nudge his arm. “Be honest, was that just to drive the library patrons wild with lust?”
His eyes go even darker than normal. “You’re the only person I want to drive wild.” Mission accomplished, I think, as he places a hand on the small of my back. “For the record, I usually leave my tool belt in the truck at night, but maybe I’ll bring it the next time I stop over.”
I don’t bother to mask my laugh this time. “Not sure seeing your saucy dangles with a tool belt is going to do it for me.”
We’ve reached his truck, and he opens the passenger side door—something he always does, which is kind of old-fashioned and sweet. Before I can get in, he steps closer, pressing me against cold metal. “For the record, mytool beltis never dangly when you’re around.”
I press my mittened hands to his chest, the heat of his body warming me in all the right places. “Should I take that as a compliment?”
“It’s more frustrating as hell, but sure, take it as a compliment.”
Glad to know I’m not the only one affected by whatever this is between us. “To be honest,” I say as he pulls away from the curb. “I wouldn’t be upset if this was part of a truck hookup master plan.”
His grin goes from devastating to lethal in two seconds flat. “Tempting but too cold.” He leans across the console and kisses my cheek. “Despite how hot I make you.”
“Ego much?” I counter, even though he’s right. I’m about to add, “We’ll have to save the truck hookup for spring,” except we won’t—because what’s between us will be over, and he’ll be gone. My stomach clenches at the idea of that, and my stupid heart does the same.
“I want to show you a house,” he says as he turns into an established neighborhood at the edge of downtown.
I try to hide my surprise that he read my thoughts. “You’re buying a house in Skylark?”
I don’t examine the excitement that flutters through me as the truck rolls down the quiet street. Even the bare branches of the nearby trees seem to be leaning in like they’re waiting for his answer.
“For my sister,” he says. “Rhett asked if she’d consider moving here after rehab. It would be easier if she had a place to land. A home of her own. I don’t want her to rely on a guy she’s dating to put a roof over her head—or Rhett’s. Ever again.”
“So you’re going to do it for them,” I murmur, and feel my heart swell. What he’s doing is so generous and thoughtful, and I shouldn’t let it affect me this way. I swallow against the warmth building in my chest. The heat of attraction is potentially manageable, but this feels way more troublesome.
“Maybe. I have the money for it, but I don’t want to be heavy-handed or force her into something. I’m also not sure she’ll agree if I give it to her. She’s proud, and I respect that. I’m thinking of a rent-to-own type arrangement.” He runs a hand through his hair like he’s uncomfortable with what this potential plan reveals about how much he cares.
“Before I go any further, I want your opinion. I need to know if it’s a house she’d like.”
Why does it make me feel so special that my opinion matters to him? It feels like he’s trusting me with a part of himself he doesn’t often let into the light—the part that wants good things for the people he loves. And damn if that doesn’t make me want to be one of them.
“I don’t know your sister, but?—”
“You’re a chick,” he says, with an almost nervous-looking hand flip. “Chicks know what other chicks like.”
“I feel like I should be offended that you’re calling me a chick.”
“Woman. Yes, Tinkerbell. You’re a woman. I’m well aware of that. This is it,” he says, pulling into the driveway of a house a few blocks from downtown.
It’s an older home, probably built in the early nineteen hundreds, a style known as a Denver Square. The siding is a deep blue color, faded in some spots, with white trim and shutters that also need a coat of fresh paint, but it’s adorable. The house is a mix of classic charm and untapped potential, and it does something funny to my insides. I might not know Eric’s sister, but I can almost picture her in the front window, a cup of coffee in hand.
Or maybe it’s me I’m picturing in this perfect house. The wide front porch practically begs for a pair of rocking chairs—just the thing for reading on a lazy Sunday afternoon. It’s solid, unpretentious, a little rough around the edges and built to last. Just like Eric. Which is precisely why he might have the power to break my heart.
21
TAYLOR
“I can’t speakfor your sister, but this is right off my vision board.” I laugh even as sweat pools between my shoulder blades. “Does she like older homes?”
