“It’s…” Her head shakes like she can’t believe that just happened, and then her face breaks into a smile and she laughs. She throws her hands up and shrugs. “I mean, I guess that’s life with kids, huh?”
My god, I’m not sure I’ve ever appreciated a response like I do this one. “Actually, yes. Incredible embarrassment and deeply humbling moments punctuated with amazing joy, unexpected delights, crippling anxiety, endless surprise, and a not-small amount of snot.”
She laughs in a big burst, then covers her mouth again.
“Truly, I’m so sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever explicitly stated that we shouldn’t open things found under someone else’s bed. And when May lived here, she had a little closet thing she took with her where she kept all her clothes, so there wasn’t much underneath. I didn’t think about it.”
I dart a hand through my hair and hope she’s as nonchalant as she seems about all this.
“Don’t worry about it. I survived you putting them away, and if I did that, I think I can do anything.” She chuckles to herself.
“Yeah? Same.” She has no idea.
“We found one!” The girls yell this in unison in the way that always makes me wonder if they’ve rehearsed it before doing it. Lily waves the DVD case in the air, and this breaks the tension between me and Sam.
A few minutes later, we’re all crammed onto her little couch, Lily and Poppy on one end and, alarmingly, me and Sam sitting side by side, glued together from shoulder to hip to thigh to calf. It is far from comfortable, but Poppy and Lily have managed to spread out so much that we’re genuinely struggling for space.
I don’t want to crowd her, or spook her, or do anything to make her uncomfortable. Especially after the lingerie explosion sponsored by Poppy’s boundless curiosity.
Ten minutes into the movie, I shift and pull the arm nearest her up and slide it across the back of the couch. I’m not making a move. I’m simply trying to figure out how to get us more space.
There’s no escaping our nearness. I can’t pretend I’m fully watching the movie when she’s so close, and I miss her when I’m not with her like some kind of lovesick idiot. Up close, I can see she has a freckle next to her earlobe, and underneath her ponytail, little hairs curl against her neck.
She moves, and an apology is on the tip of my tongue when her hand comes to rest on my thigh. For a few seconds, my brain short-circuits.
The needy old dog can only make a few connections.Hand. Thigh. Warm. Good. Like. More.
Pathetic.
She keeps her gaze forward, but I can see she’s breathing a bit heavier than she was. I don’t know what this means. Is it just a friend thing?
Do friends put a hand on their friend’s leg? I don’t know. I’m realizing I’ve not had many female friends I’ve been close to. It’s been men, or sisters, or women I dated. Coworkers, sure. No women I wanted to date but who asked to be friends instead. I am fully capable of respecting that, but now I’m wondering if maybe I didn’t realize what that entailed. And maybe I’m not capable of any of this.
It would not be the first time I am ill-equipped to deal with reality.
But then she turns to look at me, her dark eyes catching mine and holding like they always seem to do. And the look she gives me is something I can’t quite read—it’s shy, but hopeful?
It’s a slight smile. Not beaming, not unleashed likewhen we laughed together minutes ago. But it’s peaceful. Relaxed. I could swear it’s almostpleased.
My body overrides the rampant self-doubt and I cover that hand with mine, sliding our fingers together and savoring the little shiver that rocks through her. We’re still locked in on one another, so I see the way her mouth opens and her eyes shut for a moment when I slide my thumb along her wrist.
I don’t know what’s happening right now, but I’m certain it’s going to change things between us one way or another.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Sam
Inever realized how sensual handholding can be.
I feel a little bad for Past Sam, who had no idea. Something tells me that with this man, everything would be better.
His calloused palm brushes against my smoother one and he slowly slides his long fingers down the length of mine, then presses back together with a delicious squeeze. It’s honestly kind of hot.
Actually, no. It’s more than hot, and it’s made all the hotter because he’s watching the movie. His attention is forward and he’s moving that big, warm hand so deftly and seemingly as a kind of distracted, mindless activity. I don’t know if he’stryingto turn me on, or if he can do it without any effort.
Tragically, he stops the sexy handholding, but a minute later, I feel the pads of his other fingers graze againstmy neck, then gently tug at one of the little wisps of hair that didn’t quite make it up into my ponytail.
My breath catches when the soft slide of his fingertip reaches my earlobe, then lightly traces the arc of my ear itself.
