Riley: Is that so?
Grant: Just thought you should know. In case it comes up.
Riley: In case making out in my parents' basement comes up at Sunday dinner?
Grant: You never know. Your mom might ask if we're "taking things slow."
Riley bit her lip, her pulse suddenly erratic.
Riley: And what would you say?
Grant: I'd say we're taking it exactly as fast as we should be.
Riley pressed the phone against her chest for a second, trying to steady her breathing. This was dangerous. This was flirty banter that felt too real, that made her want things she shouldn't want.
Riley: You're trouble.
Grant: You like that too.
Riley: Go to sleep, Grant.
Grant: Only if you do.
Riley: Deal.
Grant: Night, Riley.
Riley: Night.
Riley set her phone down and stared at the ceiling, her face still warm, her heart still racing.
I'm a much better kisser now.
She was in so much trouble.
EIGHT
Grant
Grant had learned a long time ago that volunteering for town events was a double-edged sword.
On one hand, it kept him busy. Gave him purpose. Made his dad proud.
On the other hand, it meant spending Saturday morning on a rickety ladder in the town square, hanging lights while Mrs. Henderson shouted directions from below like she was directing a Broadway production.
"A little to the left, Grant! No, your other left!"
Grant adjusted the strand of lights, his fingers numb from the cold. "How's this?"
"Perfect! Now string it to the lamppost!"
He reached for the next hook, balancing precariously on the ladder, when a familiar voice cut through the chaos.
"Need a hand?"
Grant looked down.
Riley stood at the base of the ladder, bundled in a puffy coat, cheeks pink from the cold, holding a cup of coffee like a peace offering.
