Page 20 of A Lonely Road
Nora huffed. “I don’t want anyone competing over me, and I hate to tell you, but my choice is that I just want to be friends. With both of you.”
“Of course,” I agreed easily, but I let my gaze brush over her as I passed.
Holy hell.I barely managed to contain a strangled groan.
The dress hit mid-thigh, revealing full, smooth legs above the delicate sandals on her feet. The generous flare of her hips gave the loose skirt a bit of swing, and though the neckline was disappointingly modest, my fingers itched to brush across the fine bones of her collar, to stroke over those pretty shoulders and trail down her arms.
Today, she looked wholly different—and I was fairly certain it wasn’t just the dress. Everything about her seemed less guarded, her eyes a little brighter, those full lips a little more ready to smile.
I hoped that I’d had at least as much to do with that circumstance as my sister had.
After tucking the lawnmower back into the garage, I paused on my own driveway. A strip of grass a yard wide separated us, but I could have sworn I felt the warmth of her seeping into my skin. Trying not to gawk, I wiped my forehead with the back of my arm.
“You look nice,” I said, tamping down on the litany of compliments whirling through my brain.
“You look hot,” she replied absently.
My eyebrows shot up as a smile burst across my face. “Do I, now?”
Her features immediately arranged themselves into an expression of horror. “Oh my god. I meant sweaty. Hot in temperature. I have to go now. Oh, god. Goodbye, Jake.”
Without another word, she spun on her heel and practically ran up the stairs to her apartment while my startled laughter rang out behind her.
“Just strike me dead right now, please,” I heard hermutter as she dug in her purse for the key.
“Nora,” I called, watching her fumble with the lock.
She covered her eyes with one hand for a minute, then finally peeked through her fingers to look down at me from the landing. “Yes?”
“You're looking pretty hot yourself.” I grinned broadly and saluted. Before she could recover enough to tell me off, I winked and disappeared into the garage.
Just friends, my ass.
No friend of mine had ever turned quite that shade of red over a misspoken word or two. I was willing to bet that Nora Cassidy had already veered pretty far off of the friendship path.
I sure as hell had.
Overthefollowingweek,any awkwardness I worried might develop between us after that slip up never materialized. It seemed like Nora expected me to tease her about it the next time I saw her, bracing when I brought her a refill of root beer, but I made no mention of it.
Then, once or twice, I caught her looking at me in a way that made my blood heat, a way that made mewant.
Still, she didn’t open the door to anything deeper and I didn’t push.
Just friends,I told myself again and again. Eventually, maybe it would sink in. Until that point, however, I was stuck fighting the stupid desire to smile like a fool every time she was nearby.
We fell into the habit of walking home together from The Mermaid whenever Nora stayed until closing time. On the days in between, she tended to show up closer to lunchtime, as though to prove to us both that she wasn’t rearranging her life to suit me.
It didn’t matter—I'd take whatever I could get. Those quiet walks had become the highlight of my days.
Slowly but steadily, I peeled back my layers of “don’t scare Nora away” protection: first by removing my hands from my pockets, then by gradually reducing the distance between our bodies on the sidewalk. I never touched her unnecessarily, though I had to catch her elbow once when she stumbled over acrack in the sidewalk. Even in the faint glow of the street lamps, I could see her blush, but when she didn’t immediately yank her arm from my grasp, I considered that progress.
By the time we were walking close enough for me to catch a whiff of her shampoo or lotion—something fresh and fruity, like peaches or pears—I was hooked.
“So,” Nora said one evening, “you and Sam own The Mermaid, but you’re also a bartender-slash-handyman and she’s also a realtor? Is this a family trait, being such overachievers?”
I laughed, but I was always pleased when she initiated an actual conversation. “Well, our full-time bartender broke his wrist playing kickball with his buddies, and my part-timer is taking some evening classes this summer. Normally, I only do a shift or two each week to keep my foot in the door. I like getting to know our customers.”
“I’ve noticed,” she muttered, but she flashed me a smile.
