Page 60 of Choosing Forever
Darren’s standing right in front of the door. So close I immediately smell his cologne and aftershave on the breeze. He’s dressed up tonight. It’s almost jarring to see him having put so much effort into his appearance after standing witness to the opposite for so many years.
With the well-fitted, dark jeans, a slightly wrinkled, mossy-green long-sleeve, shaved jaw that makes his mustache stand out all the more, and no baseball cap, he looks like my Darren from the past.
I lower my eyes to his throat, unable to keep staring at him right now.
His Adam’s apple bobs when he says, “It’s one of the thousand things that I remember.”
“When did you decide you wanted to grow a real mustache?” I ask, immediately wishing I had stayed silent instead.
What the hell kind of question is that?And right now?There’s no hope for me.
He doesn’t miss a beat with his reply. “I’m not sure. I tried the whole beard thing, and suddenly, I looked like I should have a mug shot on a wanted poster.”
“It was a bit . . . much,” I agree.
“A mustache is cleaner. If I have no facial hair, I look twelve, though. It’s a good compromise.”
I tongue my cheek and raise my eyes. Two deep pools of brown welcome me, strong and steady. “Right.”
“You look beautiful tonight—always. You always do, not just tonight.”
With a pathetic, needy noise trapped in my chest, I keep a straight face. “This isn’t a date.”
“You should be complimented regardless. Date or not.”
“Not by you,” I argue weakly.
“Okay, Elle. Not by me. How about we just go?”
“Delaney,” I correct him. “But yes, let’s go.”
He retreats slightly, opening a small gap for me to slip out and shut the door behind me. I linger with my back to him for a second longer before joining him on the chipped porch stairs.
The way he’s eyeing my feet has me blurting out, “What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“What?”
“My shoes. You’re looking at them funny.”
He steps off the last stair and slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, glancing away. There’s a hint of a smirk on his lips that he’s trying to hide. “Are you sure you don’t want to change them before we leave?”
“Oh, sorry, do I not look like a wedged-heel kind of woman to you?”
His smirk grows to an unabashed level when his eyes roam up my body to snare mine. “I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m just thinking back to the last time you wore shoes like that.”
Dropping a hand to palm my waist, I lean to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But I do.
It was prom, and Darren wound up carrying me from his car to my bedroom at one o’clock in the morning because my feet were throbbing so badly that I couldn’t walk on my own. It was also the first time he’d been given approval to spend the night with me at my parents’ house while they were away. He’d been sneaking in through my window before then. Which, to this day, I’m positive my grandma knew about but never once told my parents.
“I can drive us to where we’re going instead of walking if you’re adamant about wearing the shoes. They look good on you either way,” Darren says, the compliment obvious amongst the nonchalant offer.
“I’m sure I can survive the five-minute walk to the diner.”
