Page 51 of This Spells Love

My week dragson at a glacial pace. And with a clear, beer-free head, I’m not entirely sure if Dax has asked me on a date for Friday night or if we’re simply hanging out. Two colleagues. Entrepreneurs in the James Street Small Business Association.

It’s not like me to obsess over a guy. To be fair, I spent four years dating Stuart, who was as predictable as the number two setting on my BLACK+DECKER toaster. He called me every morning to provide a full weather forecast and make recommendations on my outerwear and texted me when he got home from work to give me a quick debrief on his day and wish me sweet dreams. I never once second-guessed our relationship. Mind you, I didn’t exactly see our breakup coming, but that’s another issue for another day.

Today my issue is Dax.

And our date or non-date this evening.

And how I know we should keep things platonic. Yet, I still take over forty-five minutes to pick out a pair of black jeans, boots, and a simple white camisole trimmed in lace, telling myself it’s because I’m trying to present a certain image to my customers, not because Dax once said lace on a woman is his kryptonite.

My phone rings while I’m on my walk to work. My heart picks up a few notches until I see the name on my screen.

“Hey, Aunt Livi.”

She doesn’t answer back immediately, but I can hear the sound of her voice somewhere off in the background, and it sounds like she’s talking to a customer.

“Oh hi, sweetheart, just wanted to check in. Mr. Zogaib called to say you’re not quite open yet, and I wanted to make sure you didn’t go back to your other dimension or anything.”

I’m simultaneously impressed that she managed to make that statement with such nonchalance and slightly annoyed that my next-door neighbor feels he has to tattle every time I’m a few minutes late.

It’s only nine-fifteen, and I needed a few extra minutes to blow out my hair.

“Everything is great. I’m almost at the store and sticking around this dimension for at least a couple of weeks.”

I wave to Mr. Zogaib as I pass his flower shop, then unlock the door to my store with my aunt still on the line.

“Have you talked to your sister this week?” Aunt Livi asks.

“Not since Saturday. I’ve been busy.” And avoiding her. Although Kiersten would typically be my go-to when it comes to analyzing important things like whether Dax has asked me on a date, I already know her opinion, and I am not mentally ready to see the smugness on her face when I admit she might be right.

“Well, maybe give her a call later,” my aunt says. “I think she’s a little stressed lately.”

I snort-laugh, which ironically is a classic Kiersten move. “Kierst is Superwoman. She’s the perfect wife. Amazing mom. Would probably be PTA president if she had a filter or wasn’t such an asshole. I’m a hot mess on a good day. What would she ever need from me?”

“That’s a good question…” She clears her throat but doesn’t speak. It’s her tell when she’s worried about something, though I’m not entirely sure if it’s Kiersten causing the angst or if she’s agreeing with the state of my life.

“I’ll call her later,” I promise.

“Thank you, poodle. I worry about her.” And although she doesn’t say it, I can hear in her voice theAnd I worry about you too.

I end the call with a promise to call her back tomorrow, flip the sign toopen and awesomefrom its previous state ofclosed but still awesome, and immediately greet my first customer: Mr. Zogaib’s elderly mother. She has a thing for my lemon-scented hand cream.

The small blessing in my day is that my store is busy. I don’t get a single chance to scroll on my phone or stress about Dax because every time I ring through a customer order, a new one appears. So at ten after seven, when the little bell chimes as my front door opens, I’m caught off guard to see Dax standing there in a pair of tight-fitting black jeans and a white button-down shirt tailored perfectly to showcase the lean lines of his body.

Oh shit. This is definitely a date.

Dax never wears a button-down. He has three types of tops in his wardrobe that he chooses from based on the temperature outside: henleys for cool weather, T-shirts for when it’s warm, and tank tops for when there’s little chance of running into me, as I tend to be vocal about my feelings about tank tops on grown men.

I have never seen Dax in a button-down, and that scares me. It feels like I’m stepping into uncharted waters, unaware if anything below the surface bites. Undecided as to whether I want it to.

“You look nice,” I manage to croak out.

His eyes, I notice, are lingering on the laced V of my camisole. “That was my opening line. You ready to go?”

My store is a mess. I haven’t done any of my closing paperwork nor looked to see if my hair has any weird baby curls around the temples from running around all day—but I nod. “Yup, just let me grab my purse.” Future Gemma can deal with all of this tomorrow.

We’re headed to Hess Village, which is less of a village and more of an intersection of two cobblestone streets, lined mostly with pubs and bars at the west end of Hamilton’s downtown core. It’s a solid twenty-minute walk from James Street, but the night air is warm, and I have nervous energy to burn and best friends in dress shirts to analyze, so we opt to walk and save our hard-earned retail dollars for an Uber ride home later.

“How was the day?” I kick off the conversation, hating myself for asking such a lame question, but the button-down has thrown me so badly that I’m second-guessing everything.

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