Yes.
Christin:
Then whose permission are you waiting for?
Me:
His?
Emery:
Only one way to find out if you have it.
Me:
So help me God, if you mention my thong again…
A bunch of laughing emoji texts come in our group chat. But just when I think they’ve gone back to their lives, I receive a message straight from Amy to me.
Amy:
If you’re ready to open yourself up again, embrace the feeling. Some of us may never be ready.
I flop back on the bed with too many thoughts swirling through my head. Overriding all the reasons I shouldn’t have wanted that kiss is one major argument.
Troy himself.
Entering the kitchen, I’m assaulted by the scents of rosemary and wine. It’s the kind of attack I welcome as it feels like comfort—a much-needed hug after I spent the afternoon soaking in the clawfoot tub trying to determine if I should pass on the chance or run straight into Troy’s embrace.
An hour later, I’m just as confused. Maybe more so.
Troy’s been cordial but distant since he sat down across from me. Each movement has been precise, including when he rolled his sleeves up as he started cooking to reveal his tanned muscular arms. Much to my disappointment, he’s been completely unreadable, as if he’s trying to file away what happened.
He pours some more wine into my glass. “I’m glad you’re enjoying this one. It’s from last season’s reserve.”
I offer him a wan smile before lifting the stemmed glass to my lips. “It’s delicious.”
He doesn’t fill the silence between us. Instead it causes my mind to swirl.Am I overthinking things?I wonder. The almost kiss, a moment that evaporated in the cool Piedmont air. I try to find a safe topic. “As usual, everything was incredible.”
“My mother’s recipe.” A smile finally crosses his face. There’s a flicker of humor in his eyes before he shares, “As an only child, I was spoiled rotten by her cooking. Eventually, as I got older, I cooked alongside her.”
“And your father?”
He laughs with genuine humor. “To quote my mama, ‘He knows how to make coffee and Irish soda bread, Troy. If he attempted anything else, it might cause an inferno.’”
We both laugh at his mother’s appreciation of his father’s limitation of kitchen skills. I poke at the remaining food on my plate. “I wish my parents were like that.” The words escape my lips without warning.
“Your relationship isn’t a good one?”
I draw my fork through my perfectly cooked paella, choosing my words carefully. “I don’t think they understand me.” My lips quirk in a smile. “Few do.”
“You mean your desire to jump out of planes?” An edge slides into his voice.
I nod, but just as quickly shake my head. “No, it’s more complicated than that. If I was just an adrenaline junkie, they’d understand.” With a rueful grin, I admit, “They’re my parents. They know I’m not above a good game of chicken on the back of a horse.”
“I’m ignoring the chicken racing.”
I correct him. “Horse racing.”
