Tom’s presence tugged at her attention no matter where she turned. The house felt different with him in it. She tried to focus on the food, on her mother’s chatter, but her awareness kept circling back to him like a compass that refused to point north.
By the time the plates were cleared and the cards came out, the nerves in her chest had eased.
Gerald’s voice called from the living room. “I’m ready to deal you in, sweetie.”
Lauren told herself to breathe. She took the far end of the couch. Tom was across from her, stretching his long legs out under the coffee table. Her pulse skittered. This was supposed to be neutral ground—family, routine, safety—but Tom’s presence rewrote the air, made everything feel charged and unfamiliar.
When his leg pressed against hers, it felt like touching a live wire. The contact hummed between them. Her whole body reacted, memory sparking to life, remembering too clearly what it felt like to press her knees to his under a blanket, to tangle with him on lazy Sundays, to let herself lean into that heat. She’d forgotten how much of him was muscle and heat, how quickly her body leaned toward both.
She left her leg where it was. Neither of them moved.
Gerald cleared his throat. “All right, Barrett, you and Lauren are partners this round.”
Of course.
Linda clapped her hands, delighted. “Perfect! We are going to wipe the floor with you young’uns.”
Lauren opened her mouth to object, but Tom was already there. “In your dreams,” he said. “We’ve still got our moves.”
He angled a look at her—brief but warm—and slid the score pad toward her.
The first few rounds were stiff. She was misreading his cues, and second-guessed every move.
But then it shifted.
Halfway through a hand, she looked at Tom and, without meaning to, knew exactly what he was about to play. She laid down her card to set him up. Perfectly. His eyes flicked up to meet hers.
They fell into rhythm—slow at first, then startlingly natural. A nod from him, a raised eyebrow from her. Her father groaned. Her mother accused them of cheating. Lauren felt something warm and treacherous uncurl in her chest.Partners.
Another round. Another silent exchange. Another win.
By the time Gerald announced the final score—Tom and Lauren victorious by a single point—everyone was smiling. Even Gerald was grinning, muttering, “Guess I taught you too well.”
When she reached for her coat, Tom was there, holding it out. She hesitated, then turned so he could help. His hands brushed her shoulders.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
He gave a small nod. “Can I walk you to your car?”
The February airbit at her cheeks.
Tom walked beside her down the front path, hands tucked in his coat pockets, his shoulder brushing hers every few steps. Each brief, fleeting contact jolted through her like tiny sparks racing under her skin.
He was so close. Too close for her heartbeat to behave.
He’s going to kiss me, she thought, pulse stumbling. He’s absolutely going to kiss me. We’re going to make out against the damn car like teenagers and I’m going to let him.
The idea made heat curl low in her belly. God, she could already imagine it—the solid weight of him pressing her back against the cold metal, his mouth hungry and warm, his hands tugging her closer, like he used to when things were simple.
Her breath fogged in front of her, too quick.
They stopped beside her car. The porch light just enough to gild the edges of his hair and cast shadows along his cheekbones. He turned toward her, and the breath locked in her throat.
Her eyes dropped to his mouth—briefly, helplessly—before she dragged them back up.
He exhaled, the breath clouding between them. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’ve been following the quilt squares. Our first date. Our first apartment. The trail where I proposed. The church.”
She stared at him, her mind catching up a beat too slow. But then the meaning of his words reached her, warm and heavy.
