His niece, Kamryn, made the three of us matching pink-and-aqua bracelets earlier this summer because “me and you and Uncle DD are best friends.”We totally are.
He wore two thin black leather bracelets alongside Kam’s braid until I stole one. Technically, I found it between the couch cushions when the clasp broke. So, I fixed it and kept it.
He lifts my wrist, twisting the bracelet around, checking the clasp like he always does, but he never takes it back.
There’s a bass clef symbol tattooed on the outside of his right hand below his pinky. I know every vein, scar, and muscle movement from watching him play guitar or bass, and he drives with his left hand draped over the wheel like the human personification ofno worries.
Staring at his hands might be weird, but it’s comforting. That’s a fact I should probably keep to myself, but I figure it’s less creepy than staring at his face—which, admittedly, I also do not hate.
I’m only extracting a bit of serotonin. Believe me, he has it to spare. I’m surprised animals don’t follow him around singing “Hakuna Matata,” because Daniel Crawford is the definition of emotional regulation.
I inhale his recently showered scent. It smells like spicy man soap, reassurance, a dash of mischief, and wintergreen Tic Tacs.Alwayswith the Tic Tacs.
He knows what I’m doing, and he doesn’t rush me. Not yet. He meets me where I am without judging how I got here. For the record, procrastination is how I got here. My condensed summer classes are winding down, and this paper’s due by midnight.
I slid into home plate safe with hours to spare, but I’ve got to go to work.
Like,now.
I know how this looks, but it’s not at all romantic. It’s like we’re in a video game and he’s giving me an extra life. Rest assured the moment will pass.
“You really gotta lock that door, Lu,” Daniel mumbles into my hair.
I feel his chin move on top of my head as he speaks, and my mind spaces out wondering if that’s a beard or stubble I feel. Ihaven’t looked yet, and I haven’t seen him up close today. He gives my left hand a quick squeeze.
“I would, but Annie never has her keyyyy—AAAOOOHHHH, NOOOO!” I screech my disgust as his wet finger enters my right ear. I try to move, but my whole left side’s asleep, and he easily escapes me. Classic bait and switch. I fall for it every time.
I rock forward to my hands and knees, and his evil laugh motivates me to shake off the stiffness and get ready for work.
“What do I always tell you? Trust no one,little girl.” He winks and walks toward the door.
Nope. He hasn’t shaved, and the scruff goes nicely with his long, shaggy,SupernaturalSam Winchester-esque golden brown hair. It’s a hard look to pull off. A guy’s got to have enough texture going on or it can turn into a whole Lord Farquaad-Shreksituation.
The rate at which this guy grows hair is unsettling. In the span of a few weeks, he can go from fresh-faced skater boy with messy collar-length hair to full-on dirty hippie with a scruffy beard and hair past his shoulders—long enough to braid. When I finally write my romance novel, Daniel will make the perfect book boyfriend, and I’m shamelessly devoting a whole chapter to his hair.
One thing I can confirm: There is no beard-fishing here. The face under there has a perfect jawline, and that beard isn’t covering anything but a hint of a chin dimple. The one in his right cheek will show if he cheeses hard enough, and no amount of facial hair could ever hide it.
There isn’t a look that doesn’t work for him, and it all works for me.
Not that it matters. It doesn’t. But looking at him is not a hardship.
Good hair aside, I get it. “Lock the door,” he always says.But getting our fridge raided is a bigger threat than stranger dangeraround our complex. His other favorite reminder is “Trust no one.”
Eh, maybe.
I’m a hyper-independent, emotionally guarded, parentified oldest daughter,unlessDaniel Crawford is involved. Then I’m a helpless little girl. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth. I trusted him before I knew his name. I didn’t have much choice, since he was the only thing between me and the tile floor the day we met, but still. It’s his own fault. He makes trusting him way too easy.
“Gimme two minutes to change!” I roll my eyes at myself, knowing what’s next.
Without missing a beat, he segues into that old song saying not to change to try to please him as he walks outside. It still makes me laugh, though he sings itevery single timeI say it.
I must be turning into my mother, because I appreciate Billy Joel more the older I get.
I’m dressed in record time, shuffling out with untied shoes and a ball cap in my hand because I don’t completely trust him not to leave me. Okay, he wouldn’tleave me, but he absolutely would move the car.
It’s time for me to serve the cranky people their fried food, and Daniel will pick Kamryn up from her day camp and take her to his mom’s office. Real estate or something. I think he works there too.
He also plays several instruments, installs doorbells, performs minor car repairs, and harmonizes with me on old songs no one else my age knows. That’s a free service I never knew I needed but have no intention of giving up.
