Page 88 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
I groan. “Am I ever going to hear the end of this?”
“No,” Dante and Jasmine say at the same time.
Beside me, Merritt laughs and releases her grip on my hand, just a little. “You’re so fun to mess with,” she says, ruffling my hair.
I pretend to be annoyed, but I don’t think I’m fooling anyone.
The longer we’re there, the more Merritt relaxes, talking naturally with Jasmine, laughing at Dante’s bad jokes. I was mostly joking about the PDA, but I find myself wanting to touch her anyway. Not just holding her hand but tracing her palm with my fingertips, curving my hand around her knee, skimming my fingers across her bare shoulders, pressing my lips against her temple. Each time, she leans into my touch like she’s hungry for it, like it’s as much a revelation for her as it is for me.
We were meant for this. For each other.
“We’re going to the bathroom,” Jasmine says, then points a stern finger at Dante. “And don’t even consider making a comment about ladies always going together.”
Dante holds up both hands, and I find myself wanting to do the same. Jasmine is sweet but notsoft. Reminds me a little bit of Merritt in that way.
“I would never,” Dante says. But the second they’re out of earshot, he leans across the table. “They do always go in packs though, right?”
“I’m not saying a word.”
He laughs. “You shaved.”
“I trimmed.” I took scissors and then a razor to my beard today, and am still getting used to the feel of it. Merritt hasn’t once complained about my overgrown beard, but I saw the chapped skin on her cheeks and neck last week—a by-product of making out like teenagers. I hope this shorter trim will result in less beard burn on her pretty skin.
Do I plan to test this out tonight? Absolutely I do.
Dante kicks me under the table, his grin wide. “So, things have gone from zero to trimming your mountain man beard for her. From sabotaging your tile to making out in the parking lot.”
I glare, and when Dante points to the window with a perfect view of my truck, I huff out a breath.
“Jas and I had bets going on how fogged up the windows would get.”
“Shut up. Not like you and Jasmine are any better.”
Dante’s grin is one hundred percent smug. “Oh, we’re much worse. But back to you. This seems to be moving fast for a man who hasn’t been on a date since his divorce.”
I shrug, but I can’t really deny it. “I already loved her once. Call it muscle memory.”
“You were sixteen,” Dante says. “It’s not exactly the same thing. You think you loved her back then?”
He looks doubtful. I’m not. No, it wasn’t the same as now. But it was more than I ever felt for Cass. I slid right back into these feelings the minute I stopped resisting. Which makes me wonder if I ever stopped loving Merritt at all. Only now, what I feel is deeper, brighter, more solid.
I only wish I knew if it’s the same for her.
“I’m just saying, I already know her. It feels fast, but we didn’t start from scratch. And we’re still moving slow in a lot of ways.”
Like only kissing. And never talking about the future.
The first is just fine—I’m a patient man and there’s something about prolonging that I really like. But the second … well, I just don’t want it to come back to bite me.
“So, she’s staying then?” Dante asks. When my shoulders drop the tiniest bit, Dante’s expression shifts to something more like pity. “Aw, man. You don’t know, do you? Are you going to talk about it?”
“Of course,” I snap, and I’m glad the women return when they do.
I watch Merritt cross the restaurant, laughing at something Jasmine says. Merritt’s eyes spark with more life than they did when she first arrived on Oakley. That day on the beach when she twisted her ankle, she was a different woman.
Surely that means she’ll want to stay.
I want to believe that she will. But Dante’s right. We still haven’t talked about it. We’ve danced around the subject plenty. Hinted at a future that includes us both—a future I’m assuming would be here on Oakley. I won’t leave Isabelle, which means my life is unequivocally here. But until Merritt says something concrete, I’ll be a man clinging to hope like a castaway holding onto a piece of wreckage while the waves roll by.
