The evening heat has come down to a slow simmer, so I’m happy to walk. Crape myrtles line the street in vibrant colors, and their late summer petals sprinkle the sidewalk like pink and purple confetti. The nandina bushes strongly consider yellow for their first wardrobe change of the season, while patches of monkey grass remain blissfully unaware of any seasonal change.
This is my favorite little stretch of Crappie Branch, as long as I watch my step. Those hard green persimmons dropping onto the sidewalk are unforgiving little ankle breakers.
I wonder why Daniel never mentioned his name before today. Wait—is he named after Aunt Judy? I think I solved the mystery, but my thoughts are scurrying around like squirrels. I need a nap.
A flashback of the hallway and “Tearin’ Down the Walls” zips through my thoughts, making me shiver. Mercy, stop it. I don’t have the mental capacity for this.
It’s just friendship.
But why would I want a relationship without friendship?
I may be completely insane—arguing with myself—but that pushy Fairy Snark Mother voice in my head keeps getting louder.
Movies always show your conscience like Jiminy Cricket or a fluffy cartoon angel on your shoulder. My conscience is either a sarcastic Gen X truth bomber with her arms crossed, rolling her eyes, or Dean Winchester. Maybe Uncle Jesse.
It doesn’t talk me down from the ledge—it smirks and double-dog-dares me to say what I’m really thinking. There’s a constant inner battle between verbal assault and rolling over to play dead. I’m capable of both, but I probably roll over when I should fight back.
I haven’t fully mastered the controls.
When I push the door open, Ms. Liz, the owner, comes around the counter to hug me, commenting on my big hair as she takes the tote from my hands. There’s been so much hugging. I’ll be decompressing for days.
“Look at you! So stinkin’ adorable. Are these pies for Danny’s birthday? I have cake pops too. I’ll put them in the back for later. Here, give me your purse. Hurry and rescue him.” She waves me toward Daniel. “That little redhead’s been glued to him for the last fifteen minutes. He was getting twitchy watching the door for you.”
Well, great, now I’m twitchy.
“Me?” I scrunch up my face. “Maybe he likes her. How would I know?”
“Oh, please. She’s like twelve.” She swats me with a bar rag. “And he’s been raising his eyebrows at me to get your attention since you walked in. Look.” She turns my face with her hands and forces me to look at him. “Go save your man.”
“But he’s not …”
She laughs, shooing me in DC’s direction as she goes back to the kitchen.
He’s not mine.
Sometimes we playfake meandfake mine. It’s a super fun game where the rules are made up and the score doesn’t matter.
I meet Daniel’s eyes, and he silently pleads with a tight-lipped grin and the slightest lift of his chin, willing me to come to him. He’s tuning a guitar next to an adorable redhead who’s gawking at him like he’s the cutest member of a boy band.
Occasionally, when the light hits just right, he might look a little dangerous, but I could burst her bubble. He has no interest in being a rock star. She won’t become famous or gain a million followers.
The way she looks at him with stars in her eyes makes me feel a teeny bit homicidal. It shouldn’t, because this happens all the time. Some girls are just into musicians, which Icould not possiblyrelate to, but DC’s not into meeting girls this way.
I don’t know why not. If I were hot, a little broody with a silly side, and insanely talented, I’d go with it. But alas, this is not my first rodeo. Playing the part of his girlfriend comes way too naturally, and he finds a way to up the ante every time. I’ve done it for Jace on occasion too, but that assignment stretches my acting skills pretty darn thin.
Where is Sam?Our beautiful drummer boy is perfectly willing to be ogled. He’s hard to miss at six feet four inches of blond-haired, blue-eyed, ripped, Southern perfection. And he likes to meet girls.Plural.As in, as many as possible. She’ll spot him soon enough.
But until then …
I walk up to Daniel’s chair and try not to react when he snakes his arm around my waist, pulling me between his legs to send a clear, yet very false message to his young admirer.
“Hey, baby,” he says without hesitation as he sets the guitar back on a stand to put both arms around me.
Oh,sugar-honey-freaking-iced-tea.
He definitely showered when he got home. That hint of spicy-sweet cologne is more present than earlier. Can he feel me sniffing his hair? I can’t help it. My prefrontal cortex is out of service, and my lizard brain is at the wheel.
He holds me between himself and the girl like a police barricade. I struggle to remain on my feet and keep the physical contact to a believable minimum, but he’s not one to miss an opportunity.
