Page 28 of Lavender and Lightning

I look over and he’s watching my finger, his eyes distant again. I reach out and brush a loose curl away from his forehead, humming lightly at the delightfully soft texture. He looks up, and my breath catches at the vulnerability in his smokey eyes. I trail the tip of my finger along his temple, across his sharp, devilishly handsome cheekbone, and down over the Cupid’s bow of his gorgeous mouth. His breathing is short and fast against my hand, and I smile.

“There’s nothing ordinary about you, Lucas,” I whisper.

He cocks his head as if to deny it, but I press my finger back over his lips.

“Designation doesn’t define you. I think it’s safe to say Rhett and Alexandra don’t care about that. And I certainly don’t,” I continue.

Lucas looks at me for another moment before he smiles under my finger. My heart skips a beat, and I marvel at how truly beautiful Lucas is, inside and out. He’s kind, funny, humble, driven, everything a good man should be. His eyes sparkle with wonder, like he can’t believe I’m real, and I find that I’m wondering the same thing about him. He puckers his lips to kiss my finger before reaching up, taking my hand and lacing our fingers together. He sits up on one elbow, supremely at ease, as he just watches me.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” I ask, heat coming to my face.

“No, I’m just wondering if we’re too old for a good, old-fashioned make-out session,” he says, like he’s just pondering what tomorrow’s weather will be.

I giggle, face heating more. “We could always try it out, see how we feel?” I offer.

“Excellent idea, Lydi-bug. You’re so smart,” he gushes, smiling wider.

I laugh harder, only to squeal with delight as he pulls me down by my good hand, pressing his lips to mine.

Turns out, you’re never too old for a good, old-fashioned make-out session.

twelve

Lydia

“Andhereyougo!You’re all set. Have a good rest of your day!”

The words are bright and cheery, but my smile hurts my cheeks as I hand the wrapped bouquet to the alpha on the other side of the counter. He nods absently, listening to the same phone call he’s been on since he walked in and hastily picked out a seasonal arrangement. I watch his retreating back, the blast of warm air hitting me in the face as he storms out of the door.

I let my customer service smile drop, the one that never seems to reach my eyes fully but fools enough people into assuming I’m a ray of sunshine. Plopping back down onto the stool behind the checkout counter, I roll my shoulders, relishing the movement of my left one, despite the minor ache remaining. My cast finally came off a few days ago and, while I still have to wear a soft splint around my forearm and wrist, I can finally bend my elbow and raise my arm above my head again.

My head empties as I stare out of the front windows to the deserted patch of State Street, letting my thoughts drift as I watch the rippling waves of heat rising from the pavement. July is just past halfway gone, the time slipping away like so much sand through my fingers. The ancient air conditioning unit is barely able to keep the inside of Wila’s cool enough so we don’t lose our stock to wilting. If it gets any hotter, the geriatric machine may give up the ghost at long last.

“So what are your plans for your long weekend?”

I jump slightly at the sound of Gabby’s voice, looking to find her sitting on the edge of the counter, her back to the door. She recently got her hair done, replacing the tiny box braids with thick silver dreads that bring out the cool undertones to her dark skin. Wila absolutely hates the color, but Gabby has always marched to the beat of her own drum. Gabby’s apron is folded in half at her waist, showing off the toned strip of stomach exposed by her crop top.

I shrug. “Probably another weekend of hunkering down at Fort St. Clair,” I drone with a sigh.

“You know, you could just stay here, say that I kidnapped you. I have an old magazine we can cut up for a ransom note. It would be legit,” she suggests, nudging my knee with the toe of her sneaker.

“That’s not funny, Gabs. Rhett would kill you, possibly literally,” I retort.

“Murder aside, I still think you need to get out of that house. It’s been forever since the last time we had a real sleepover,” she whines, kicking her legs slightly.

“We had one before that wedding out in Waynesboro,” I remind her pointedly.

Gabby rolls her eyes. “That wasn’t a real one. We had to get up for work the next day. I’m talking booze, junk food, staying up till 3am, only waking up before noon so we can hit up a bottomless mimosa brunch–”

“You don’t even like mimosas,” I interrupt.

“I like anything that’s billed as bottomless,” she answers without missing a beat.

We share a laugh before falling into comfortable silence. I twist my lips to the side as I consider. I try to remember the last time Gabby and I hung out, just the two of us, with no obligation to do anything the next day. When I have to think back more than four months, I sigh. It has been too long, and I can’t blame her for that. She’s been there for me as I navigated the beginning of this uncharted romantic territory with Pack St. Clair, and many other crises before that.

“Next weekend. We’re hanging out next weekend,” I declare with a resolute nod.

“Why not this weekend?” Gabby asks, confused.

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