Can you take a call?
The message barely has time to show as delivered before my phone rings a second later. The greeting I give him comes as a huff of annoyance.
“Do I even want to know?” Jensen laughs, not missing a beat.
“Probably not, and I can think of a few choice words you’ll call me when you find out.” Tipping my head back, it hits the leather headrest.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just tell her you still want her,” Jensen tells me. I know what he's thinking. In his mind, it’s a no-brainer—just go get my girl. But in reality, it’s not that simple. “I’ve heard you talk about this chick since I met you. You never date. Hardly ever crawl into another woman’s bed. So what is the problem?”
I rub my hand down my face. “You’ve met the problem. Remember? Six feet tall, hundred and eighty pounds, messy blond hair. Name’s Dylan.”
My gaze reverts to Indy, who now has her arms up over her head, stretching. God, she’s sexy. She’s wearing a black skirt with a black and pink flannel shirt opened to expose a low-cut top, and her signature combat boots. Still the same style she’s had for years, and I love she hasn’t strayed away from it—it’sher.
Jensen’s laughter rumbles through the phone. “Look, I get not wanting to piss her brother off when you were young and dumb teenagers, but now you’re an adult, and arguably in a much better position in your life than you were at when you were eighteen. Do you really think Dylan would be anything but happy for you?”
“It’s not solely up to me—” I start to argue, but he cuts me off.
“Yeah, I know it’s up to her too. But without even having a conversation, how is she supposed to change her stance?”
“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” I don’t tell him wherehereis—he already knows. It’s where I’m always at when he has to talk me off a ledge, except, usually, he’s trying to convince me not to make a fool of myself and to go home.
But tonight… tonight’s different. I told him everything Dylan said about her having aboyfriend.
“You are, but are you actually going to go in this time?”
My gaze lifts to where Indy is still standing against the wall, except now she’s looking down at her phone. The screen illuminates her features, and despite the distance I can still make out every aspect of her. The curve of her delicate nose. Her sharp cheekbones and perfect, pillowy lips.
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I make my decision. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say, then I hang up without waiting for him to respond.
The driver’s side door flies open as I push it, stepping out into the warm spring Ridgewood night. My Nikes hit the pavement, the gravel crunching below the soles as I slam the door shut without bothering to lock my truck.
Without taking my eyes off her, I trek through the parking lot, weaving through cars. With each step, my heart thunders harder, anticipation growing.
I have no speech—no plan.
Two rows separate me and the love of my life, and for a second, I wonder if I’m making a mistake. Ignoring the trepidation growing inside me, I let the memories of us flood my mind.
The first time I saw her, when she was just an eighth grader and I was a freshman, her ocean eyes were so vibrant and large, she didn’t look real.
Watching her descend her staircase before the homecoming dance her freshman year, the jet-black dress she wore full offluffy fabric that billowed down her in choppy layers, the top so tight it accentuated the curves she’d started to get.
The first time I realized I wanted her, when I was a sophomore and she had a crush on Nathan Wells, one of my baseball teammates. The urge to take a baseball bat to his kneecaps just because she liked him festered in my mind every time I had to practice with him until she finally brushed off that crush like she did the rest of them.
The memories with Indy are endless, spanning throughout our teenage years and well into adulthood, although considerably less once I went to college.
Rounding an old Subaru, I step into her line of sight, but she hasn’t seen me yet, still too engrossed in the cell phone in her hand.
Pulling mine from my pocket, I send her a message, then lean against the hood of the Subaru. The owner shouldn’t mind, it’s not like it's a Jag.
I want to see you.
I’m bordering on desperate at this point, but it’s true.Technically, I haven’t seen her for a few months…
Her fingers dance across the screen, a smile touching her pouty lips in a pursed grin. I’m close enough to see her eyes track each word, her long eyelashes cast down. She’s using her thumb to play with a ring on her finger, and her teeth sink into her bottom lip. She stops, thinking for a second before she types out a reply.
Everything she does sends a jolt of electricity straight to my dick.
Nothing good will come from that, Golden Boy.
