“Then be gentle.”
“I don’t want to overwhelm her.”
“Then be clear.”
I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t do relationships.”
“You told her that?”
“Yes.”
“And she still let you in?” She raises an eyebrow at me.
“…Yeah.”
“Then she’s not expecting you to propose. She probably just wants to know you didn’t forget she exists.”
Forget her? I wish. I can’t even get her out of my bloodstream.
Honey stands, brushing dust off her jeans. “If you don’t text her in the next five minutes, I swear to god I’m calling her myself.”
“You don’t even have her number.”
“I can find it.” She juts out her hip, “Pops, clue in, piss off a woman, there is nothing we can’t find better than the damn FBI. Don’t challenge me.”
I glare. “You stay out of it.”
“Then text her.”
I look down at my hands. Two weeks ago, those hands held Holley’s waist in the shower. Lifted her against me. Brushed damp hair from her eyes. Two weeks ago, I rode away thinking I’d feel relief once I hit the highway.
Instead I haven’t slept right since.
Honey walks toward the door, muttering, “Two grown adults, honest to god…”
“Fine,” I say, grabbing my phone off the shelf. “I’ll text.”
She stops, turns, smirks. “Good. And try not to sound like a caveman.”
“No promises.”
She snorts and disappears back into the office.
I hold my phone, thumb hovering. This is dumb. This shouldn’t be this hard. I talk to people all day.
I flirt.
I banter.
I charm.
I negotiate.
I fight.
But a single text to her?
My heartbeat actually picks up.
