I grit my teeth. “When Mae came for Sunday dinner, she saw us holding hands, but she thinks we’re friends.”
June snorts. “Serves you right for sneaking around like horny teenagers.”
“What can I say? She makes me feel all those things.” I grin.
June pretends to gag and points to the door. “Get out before I really puke all over your freshly polished boots.”
“Auntie June, why are you going to puke?” Naomi asks.
“Your daddy is gross.”
Naomi nods. “He is.”
“Hey!” I yell.
June laughs and Naomi smiles. “Behave for Auntie June. Bed in an hour!”
“Come on!” she whines, and I leave them to it.
Maybe June is right. Maybe it’s time to introduce them. But the bigger question is: is Mae ready for that?
Chapter 32
Mae
Ileanbackonthe couch, constantly checking my phone, hoping he doesn’t cancel because we already had to push things back. I’m not mad, he has to make sure Naomi is taken care of first, which is how it should be. But it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, and I don’t know why I’m so nervous.
Yes, you do. You’re just terrible at admitting anything to yourself.
Okay, fine. I’ve never made it past three dates, and we’re well past that. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for him to say, it’s not you, it’s me, or anything that would give him a reason to walk the other way.
Even though this time I’m the one leaving, but the promotion has been a sledgehammer to my brain, and any possibility of a plan I created for myself while I’m here.
Cooper doesn’t want a countdown, but how can I avoid it? It’s the reality, even though his idea is much better. We can hide behind the experience of dating, but still fall for each other in the process.
This is a recipe for heartbreak, yet I can’t stop myself from digging in.
Gravel pops on the driveway, and I force myself not to run to the door.
But I sure as hell stand right behind it to wait for him.
He knocks and I throw it open.
Cooper jerks back and smirks. “You were standing by the door, weren’t you?”
“I — no, I wasn’t.”
He chuckles and kisses my cheek before sliding past me with a bag in his hand. “Ten bucks says you were,” he tosses over his shoulder.
I mentally slap myself in the face and close the door, following him into the kitchen.
“I brought you something,” he says, setting the bag on the counter and pulling out two forks.
I gasp. “It had better be good.”
He places the forks next to the bag and leans on the counter, dragging his eyes over every dip and curve from my legs to my eyes.
“You look good, stubborn.”
