A small shiver wiggled through me despite the warmth of the fire, and I rubbed my palms against my arms to erase the goose bumps.
Davis stood, limbs unusually stiff. “I’ll start a fire in your upstairs fireplace,” he said. “It’s going to take a while for the furnace to get the whole place warm.”
I listened as he climbed the stairs, imagining Michael as Historically_Bookish, and wondering if the possibility annoyed Davis. Because something certainly seemed to.
And if so,why?
Violet’s ears perked, and she trotted into the kitchen. I followed, too restless to be left with my thoughts.
She rose onto her hind legs and wedged her big head under the lace curtain, then pressed her nose to the window.
The brown-and-white cat sat on my patio. A collection of bunnies dotted the garden. “Welcome to my menagerie,” I said, stroking her soft fur.
Davis reappeared, looking aghast.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” I said, unable to hide my humor.
“No, I just—” He looked around the room, then back to me. “Have you ever had a plan that seemed perfect, until you tried to execute it—then everything that could possibly go wrong did?”
“Uhm.” I drew out the sound, then laughed. “I came here to become Emily Dickinson. Of the ten things I’d hoped to accomplish, I’m only succeeding at the ones that matter least.” And often not very well. “So, yeah. I can relate.”
His keen gray eyes were on me again, and the air thrummed between us.
“Why?” I asked, a little too breathlessly. “What was your plan?”
I wasn’t sure who moved first, but in the next heartbeat, Davis and I met at the room’s center. Toes nearly touching, my back arched, and our gazes locked. One of his hands rose tentatively and skimmed my arm from elbow to shoulder. A small smile tugged his lips as I struggled to breathe.
“Is this part of your plan?” I asked, since he hadn’t answered my question. At least not in words.
He shook his head. “I was thinking of an old literature professor who pushed us to dig deep with our papers, in our work, and in our lives. He kept this quote on the board all year and used to hit it with ayardstick when someone volunteered something profound. ‘Make the most of your regrets.’”
“Henry David Thoreau,” I said. “You had Professor Donohue.”
Davis released me, falling back a step, expression lit with interest. “Sophomore year.”
I hated the loss of his touch, but curiosity kept me focused.
“He was my first class freshman year. Eight a.m. I was nervous, not even sure I was in the right room, and he opened with a swat of that yardstick. I nearly spilled my coffee.”
“I can’t believe we had the same professor. I graduated about three years ahead of you, but we might’ve been at the same parties.”
“I doubt that,” I said. I hadn’t gone to parties. It was hard enough just to make it to all my classes with the long commute back and forth from Willow Bend. “I went to every game I could, though. I always sat right behind the row of topless guys with red letters painted on their torsos.”
Davis barked a laugh and raised his hands into the air. “M.”
“Shut up.”
He pressed his hands to his chest. “Sophomore to senior year. Swear on Sam the Minuteman.”
“Imagine if we’d met then,” I said, smiling. Instead of here and now.
“I was more fun then,” he said. “You would’ve liked me. I still liked myself a little.”
I offered a sad smile. “I kind of like you now.”
His features softened into something like remorse, and I hoped I hadn’t said the wrong thing. “I should get going.”
The words knocked me back a step. Why was he leaving abruptly again, when everything was going so well? Because I said I liked him?That can’t be it,I told myself. Davis knew I liked him already or I wouldn’t have kissed him.
