“Because I always have fun with you.”
That was enough to wrap my heart in a hug, and I nodded. “Fair enough. Let’s go have fun.”
And that was exactly what we did. Brody started off with a tour of the historic district. He was into buildings, the architecture and history. I listened to everything he said with rapt attention. I loved ghostly tidbits. It was more than that, though. He was so excited about everything he showed me that I couldn’t help being excited, too, even if I didn’t give two figs about architecture. I could appreciate a beautiful building. I could appreciate Brody too.
He took me to The Olde Pink House for lunch, a place that had been on my visit list since the move. There he got pulled pork sliders, and I opted for fried green tomatoes—a personal favorite—and she-crab soup.
After lunch, we went on a haunted walking tour. The guide was really good, talking in creepy voices as she told the stories. She seemed committed to her job.
“The tours are better at night,” he said in a low voice as he walked next to me, our fingers linked.
How had that even happened? I didn’t remember taking his hand or him taking mine. We were just suddenly connected, and it felt natural, so I didn’t pull away.
“Have you been on all the tours?” I asked.
“I don’t know aboutallthe tours, but I’ve been on a lot of them.”
“So, are you suggesting we come back to do them at night?” I asked, feeling excitement rise. “Or do you want to stay out here until tonight?”
He shook his head then caught himself. “Actually, I was thinking we would get dinner and then head back to my house. Unless you don’t want to hang at my house again, which is perfectly okay.”
I didn’t immediately respond. He looked like he was about to panic.
“I’m fine if you don’t want to hang at my house again so soon,” he said quickly. “I’m perfectly fine sitting outside and talking if that’s what you prefer. I’m not trying to pressure you for anything.”
He was adorable when he was being awkward. The truth was, I wanted to go back to his house. It wouldn’t always be his house—I had a perfectly respectable house of my own, but my mother was currently residing under my roof, and there was no reason to make things more uncomfortable than necessary.
I pressed my finger to his lips to silence him when it became apparent he was going to keep rambling. “I’m looking forward to going back to your house,” I assured him in a low voice.
His shoulders sagged with relief. “Really?”
I nodded. He seemed to need reassurance. I wanted to give it to him. How much I could give him was the question. “I can’t make you promises, but I want to see where this goes,” I started.
He nodded.
“So let’s just play it by ear,” I continued. “We’ll do what comes naturally. We’ll figure it out as we go.”
He exhaled heavily as if I’d just taken the weight of the world off his shoulders. “That sounds good.”
“Okay.”
We both relaxed. “Where do you want to eat dinner? We could take it home and eat it at your house?” I asked.
His eyes sparkled, and all the awkwardness disappeared. “Oh, see, you just read my mind.”
22
TWENTY-TWO
“We’ll just figure it out as we go.” Those words played on repeat through my head for the next two weeks when I woke up with Bree in my bed almost daily. She looked like an angel in the soft light of morning, her features smooth in sleep. Her dark hair was in stark contrast to my pillow and always made for a striking scene.
I wanted her here. Not just for now but going forward. I couldn’t say that I wanted her forever—we were far too new for that—but I definitely didn’t want this to be a temporary thing.
In hindsight, it had been inevitable we would end up here. Our chemistry was palpable. We both felt it. My question was, could we navigate what felt like messy lives—or more like messy pasts—to keep this up? I wanted that for us more than anything, but Bree was skittish. It all revolved around her mother. Bree had been taught at a young age that men didn’t stick around. Her mother had brought an endless stream of different men into their home after her father left, and none of them had gone the distance.
I, on the other hand, had been taught that life was fragile. My father had loved my mother with everything he had. I didn’tdoubt that. Once she was gone, a part of him had died too. What was left was not that attractive.
He couldn’t be alone. I’d figured that out years before. Being alone was too much for him. He needed someone to take to charity events and go to dinner with him. The wives, since my mother, hadn’t been love matches. They’d been temporary distractions. He didn’t feel even a fraction for them of what he’d felt for Mom. He was living half a life.
