Page 98 of Our Long Days
Harriet: Presuming you and Flo are riding together?
I frown at the message.
I’m not sure what Florence revealed to the girls, but if I hazard a guess, they know everything and are pissed. Aly’s death stare from earlier and the lukewarm coffee Quinn served me told me that much. Jo remained pragmatic, and Patrick hasn’t uttered a word. He’s either silently plotting my demise or completely unaware.
Dexter: She’s at her mom’s.
Harriet: False. She’s next door. I dropped her off an hour ago.
My head snaps to the window in my bedroom overlooking the driveway, with a direct view of the A-frame. The sun hangs high in the sky, and with no lights on, it’s difficult to tell if she’s inside—until I spy the goats lounging on the small porch.
She’s here.
Dex: She’s riding with me.
Harriet: That’s what I thought. Tell her she looks pretty.
I’ve slept, look, and feel like shit, yet knowing Florence is the closest she’s been in twenty-four hours stokes a fire in me. With a silent prayer, I fit my hearing aid and head outside.
Our doors open at the same time.
It’s been raining on and off all day, but when I step onto my porch, the sun is shining.
Not from the sky.
It stands across the yard, draped in a periwinkle silk dress and stealing the breath from my lungs.
Florence descends the stairs carefully. The glossy material floats around her ankles in the evening breeze, and her yellow Chucks poke out from underneath the hem, making me smile. There’s a slight wave to her silver-blonde locks, a light dusting of makeup on her cheeks and eyes. Other than that, she’s all freckles, sun-kissed skin, and unfiltered beauty.
Her dress snags on a plank, jerking her back. I’m there in a heartbeat.
“Let me,” I rasp.
Her eyes widen when I kneel on the step below.
I reach behind her and release the material from the nail poking out of the wood. “I’ll fix that.”
My heart ping-pongs in my chest as her perfume invades my senses. Despite my better judgment, my hand falls to the back of her calf. It’s like a hit, her silky skin enough to get me through the evening but not enough to feed the hunger.
She swallows, staring down at me. Her fingers twist together, spinning the dainty ring.
“Dex, stand up. Your pants will get dirty.” That’s the first thing she says to me. Her voice is steely, shoulders rolled back, so unlike my girl. My doing.
It sickens me she’s pulling away—because I did. I’m torn down the middle of wanting to pull her into my arms and telling her to run, to save herself from a future of disappointment or heartbreak.
I don’t budge. “Harriet told me to say you look pretty.”
Her lips corkscrew. “Okay…”
“You’re not.”
She blanches.
“You’re a vision, Florence. I couldn’t look away if I tried. Wherever you go, my eyes follow. So fucking beautiful, it hurts.” I squeeze her calf. “Pretty doesn’t cut it.”
“Dex,” she whispers, eyes sparkling.
“Can we?—”
