The deluge comes on fast and hard, easily soaking through my thin long sleeves and yoga pants. The thin, sky-blue shirt is now translucent, and I’m pretty sure the soggy material is doing little to hide my braless nipples.
I fold my arms across my chest, but it’s too late. The damage is done. I look like a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown who’s also trying to seduce the postman.
Which, ironically, isn’t far off.
I consider turning back. Dry clothes. Dignity. Sanity.
But no. Viv and Marin double-dog-dared me. You can’t ignore a glitter notebook and a double-dog dare. Not when you’re the founder of the Dead Husbands Society. Our glitter notebooks are basically binding legal contracts.
So I do what any slightly damp, mostly mortified woman would do: I square my shoulders, wipe mascara from under one eye, and keep walking toward my fate.
Because nothing says ready to be honest about love like showing up braless, soggy, and racoon-eyed in the rain.
That’s when I see him.
Shit.
He must be moving fast because of the rain, because we aren’t out of my neighborhood territory yet.
Mailbag slung low over one shoulder, forearm flexing under the weight like it’s nothing. His sleeves are pushed up, revealing those strong, tanned forearms that have no business looking that good at nine in the morning. There’s a bit of scruff on his jaw, enough to be dangerous, and his hair is a little damp from the rain, dark strands clinging to his forehead in a way that reminds me entirely too much ofThe Notebook.
That familiar crease sits between his brows, the one that always made me think that he’s the kind of man who couldhandle other people’s nonsense and still have room to hold yours, too.
My heart stumbles, and for one completely irrational second, I wonder if the rain has been building to this all along. Like the universe needed drama. Mood lighting. A shirt that clings perfectly to the muscles under it.
God help me, it’s working.
And that's when Frank decides now is the perfect time to start scooting his bum across Mildred’s perfectly trimmed yard.
I freeze before going into hyperdrive and tugging on Frank’s leash like an insane person trying to get him to remove his bottom from the grass.
And that’s when Noah notices me. The rain is running over his mail baseball cap, creating little streams of water along his jawline, and in a moment of brief insanity, I wonder what it would be like to run my fingers along that same spot and follow their path down. Of course, he’s wearing a rain jacket and entirely prepared for the weather.
“Well. This isn’t something I was expecting to see today.” Noah’s voice is equal parts warm and husky and does not help the peaked nipple situation.
In my desperate attempt to separate Mildred’s prize-winning grass from Frank’s very determined butt, I’ve somehow tangled myself in the leash. Which is how I’m twisted like a pretzel, with Frank perfectly centered between us, tail lifted, eyes locked with mine, just as Frank starts pooping on the neighbor’s lawn.
Because of course he does.
I shift my weight, trying to draw attention away from Frank’s business. “So, this is your route.” Why did I say that? Of course this is his route. Shouldn’t I have gone with, ‘does walking by my fennel plants devastate you because I couldn’t even look at them the last few weeks?’
“Yep.” He lifts the bundle in his hand. “Same route that it’s been for the last fifteen years.Mail waits for no man.”
Or woman with a rogue mutt and boundary issues, apparently.
I wrack my brain for the perfect speech that I’d been writing and rewriting in my mind and on my notes app for the last few weeks. Something that didn’t seem desperate, or in love, or too eager, but also let him know I really am able to move on. But standing here, the rain pounding the pavement between us, shivers working their way up my arms, all I can think of is,
“Rain looks good on you.”
“I’d say the same.” Noah’s eyes move over my body, fixing on my pebbled nipples. “But, uh, you also look a little cold.” Before I can protest, he’s pulling off his rain jacket and closing the distance between us to drape it over my shoulders. It’s warm and smells like him.
There’s a weird silence. Like neither of us knows who we’re supposed to be now. We were friends. Then not. Then more. Then very much not. And now?
He clears his throat. “So, uh, how’ve you been?”
“Good,” I lie. “You?”
He nods. “Also good. Lots of envelopes. Got a few scented ones the last few days.”
