Or at least keep it to themselves and not involve the rest of us?
I don’t even care that we haven’t found a solution for the bakery yet. I just want him to be at peace with however this week ends. To be happy.
The lightning in the distance is getting closer, the thunder growing from distant growls to pressing imminent threat. Wind buffets the car the entire way home, and big, fat raindrops splatter the windshield as Dane puts the car in park at the cabin.
“Can you run in those shoes?” he asks me.
It’s the first thing he’s said since we got in the car, and it’s all about making sure I’m okay.
I need to do this for him. I need to make things okay for him.
“I can do my best,” I say.
“I can’t park closer.”
“It’s just water.”
It’s just water.
Oh, no, Amanda. It isnotjust water.
I haven’t fully opened my door before the weather goes from a few fat, happy raindrops to a full-on deluge. One minute, you can race between the drops, and the next, you’re swimming through air to get to the door.
It’s cool.
It’s heavy.
It’s accompanied by a flash of lightning and an earth-shattering boom of thunder under a second later.
Dane grabs my hand while we race to the porch with more distant lightning flashing constantly around us, lighting the way.
It’s not far, but we’re both soaked by the time he unlocks the door and ushers me in.
My hair is dripping. My makeup is likely failing. My dress is dry-clean only and probably dead.
But more important—Dane’s hair is soaked.
Raindrops splatter his angular face.
His white button-down is drenched, clinging to his strong, lean arms and broad shoulders and highlighting the outline of his undershirt. His nipples poke at the wet fabric. He swipes his face with onelarge hand, then brushes the water on his pants, which are also sopping wet and gripping his thighs.
“We shouldn’t track water in,” he says.
Our eyes meet.
My belly drops to my toes, my heart speeds up, and my vagina clenches.
He’s about to offer to turn around so I can undress—I can see it in his eyes, I swear I can—andno.
I don’t want him to turn around.
I want to stand here, peel my dress off, and watch him watch me. And then I want to unbutton his shirt, one button at a time, and relieve him of all his wet clothes too.
The engagement is fake.
My attraction to this man is not.
“I like you,” I whisper.
