Page 67 of Absolutely Not in Love
I spin around to see Gracie standing in the doorway, one hand pressed against the door jamb. She’s wearing a dark red dress that’s wrapping around her curves in all the right ways.
My eyes rove over her body, drinking her in, but when I finally force my eyes to her face, she’s doing the same thing to me, so I don’t feel quite so bad.
“Hi,” I say, and she startles the slightest bit, like she just remembered why she’s even here.
“Hi. Is this too fancy?” She looks down at her dress. “I’ve been freaking out for the past ten minutes because I want to wear something perfect because I want our date to be perfect, and I couldn’t decide between this one and a black dress that I really love, but honestly, I wear black all the freaking time, so do I really want to wear black when I’m not on stage? But the lace on this one feels fancier than the black and I don’t want to be too fancy.” She finally takes a breath. “So I’m asking you.”
It takes me a minute to respond. Because she’s adorable. And her dress is stunning. And the way she barreled in here demanding an opinion feels so domestic, so comfortable, I can’t focus on answering because I’m too busy imagining a life where talking to Gracie like this is the norm. Just a regular day.
Gracie’s eyes drop to the floor and a hand presses to her stomach. “Itistoo fancy. I knew it was.” She turns to leave.
“Gracie, stop.” It takes three long strides to reach her, then I catch her wrist, tugging her toward me before she can escape. Her hands press against my chest—mybarechest—and for a moment, I let myself hold her, my hands falling to the curve of her waist.
I close my eyes as the warmth from her palms seeps through my skin and settles in my heart. “It’s not too fancy,” I say softly. “You look beautiful.”
“Are you sure?” She lifts her brown eyes to mine.
I slowly drop my hands and step backward, pushing them safely into my pockets. “I mean, I’m biased,” I say, “so you could come in here in sweats and I’d still think you look beautiful. But yes. I’m sure.”
She slides her hands down the front of her dress. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
She spins around and darts out the door, but then she pauses and sticks her head back in. “Hey Felix?” She grins and looks me up and down. “You aren’t looking so bad yourself.”
Everything about our date is perfect. Dinner at Harvested is delicious, our conversation is easy and natural, and we’re touching every chance we get. Just little things. A brush of her arm against mine, my hand on the small of her back, her foot nudging mine under the table. But even these small gestures are ratcheting up the tension between us. If I don’t kiss this woman soon, I might lose my mind.
We talk about everything. Our families, our likes and dislikes, even what we hope our own futures look like. (Just for the record, our plans for the future totally align.)
The only thing we don’t talk about is hockey. I’m not sure it’s intentional, but the conversation doesn’t lead us there, and I’m hesitant to bring it up. I’d like to think it’s not an issue for Gracie anymore. My profession hasn’t changed in the last few weeks, and she’s giving me plenty of signs that she’s interested in pursuing whatever is happening between us.
But in the back of my mind, I can’t help but wonder. If wedowind up in a relationship, will she come to my games? Support me in that way?
It’s this thought that finally makes me recognize the connection between hockey and my earlier anxiety. Back when Eli crashed our dinner, Gracie hinted that she was changing her mind about hockey players, but does that mean she’s changed her mind about the sport in general?
By the time we finish our dessert, I manage to push the disquieting thought to the back of my mind. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, and Gracie hasn’t given me any reason to worry.
Outside, the temperature has dropped several degrees, the wind picking up the fall leaves and tossing them around us in tiny cyclones.
Gracie leans into my side, slipping her arm through mine. “Ugh, does this feel like winter to you? I’m not ready for winter.”
I tug her a little closer. “As long as it isn’t a Chicago winter, I’m okay.”
“Hey, Felix!” Logan calls, his voice cutting through the cool night air.
I look up to see him and Parker approaching us on the street, hand in hand.
We walk toward them, pausing in front of Cataloochee Coffee’s front window. The shop is closed already, but the window casings are wrapped in twinkle lights, highlighting the fall leaves and pumpkins decorating the entire storefront. All of Maple Street is decorated for fall with an enthusiasm that surprised me when I first moved to Harvest Hollow. But now, it just feels like home. White lights crisscross back and forth all the way down Maple Street, and hay bales and pumpkins adorn every street corner.
“Hey, man,” Logan says as he reaches out to shake my hand. He pulls me in for a quick hug, slapping me on the back. “Looking good.”
“Hey,” I say. “You remember Gracie.”
They quickly say hello, then Logan introduces Parker.
“We’ve never officially met,” Parker says to Gracie, “but our brothers played hockey together years ago. Do you remember a Brandon Douglas?”
“That definitely sounds familiar,” Gracie says. “It’s nice to meet you.”
The two of them start up a conversation about high school and all the people they know in common while Logan pulls me to the side, eyebrows raised.
