Her throat tightened as the memory unfolded.
I can’t stop thinking about you. I wake up wondering what you’re doing. I want to kick myself for being a fool—which is how I think we’d both feel if we don’t at least…try.
She wasn’t sure if he meant them or the house, and when she’d asked, he’dsmiled, not dodging the question, but not forcing an answer either.
The moment had shifted everything. They agreed to buy the house, each take an apartment, and see what happened.
Somethingwas definitely happening between them. They shared evenings and meals, spent late nights on the rooftop, sipping pinot grigio, looking at the stars, and listening to the surf. They continued to learn about each other, kissed each other goodnight, and went to sleep in their respective beds.
Every morning, Tessa woke up with him on her mind and knew he did the same. No, she didn’t think their relationship was what had Dusty so quiet tonight.
“Before the party, Vivien and I read a diary entry from this very day in 1993,” she told him, partly to fill the silence, partly because some of the entry was still echoing in her head. “Wow.”
Dusty let out a low groan. “Oh, no. Please tell me my name didn’t come up.”
She laughed. “It absolutely did.”
He shot her a look, bracing. “What kind of idiot did I make of myself this time?”
“Relax. It wasn’t a horror story.” She smiled. “Actually, it was kind of sweet.”
“That’s not usually how stories about eighteen-year-old Dustin Mathers start.”
“Well, apparently, you surprised everyone.” She leaned back against the seat. “Crista had a meltdown and you soothed her.”
“The meltdown I can believe. My soothing? Not so much.”
“You were a therapist even way back then,” she said.
“Really? ’Cause I thought I was a troubled mess who was usually drunk and secretly pining after the blonde in very short shorts.”
She snorted. “They weren’tthatshort, but I do remember thinking you were a hero.”
He stared straight ahead for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “Huh.” Then he threw her a look. “I’ll take that as a win.”
Even as he smiled, she felt that subtle strain again. The way his gaze drifted, his expression tightening. The fact that he dropped the subject of her short shorts.
The car rolled into the driveway, tires crunching over shell-strewn gravel. Dusty cut the engine, and the sudden silence settled over them, thick and intimate.
They sat there for a beat longer than necessary.
Tessa reached for the door handle, then hesitated. “You okay?” she asked gently.
“Yeah.” The answer was too quick, and he looked like he realized that. “Just tired. Long week. Saw a lot of patients.”
That made sense. Dusty’s work as a therapist specializing in grief counseling wasn’t easily left in his home office. And she’d seen lots of cars in the driveway spot they reserved for his clients, so it had been a busy week up to the holiday.
“More work tomorrow?” she asked.
“Maybe. I have one patient…” His voice faded as they each got out of the truck, the sound of the surf faint but constant.
As they reached his first-floor front door, he sighed. “I don’t know if I’m dreading seeing this patient or really looking forward to telling her something.” He adjusted the dark-rimmed glasses that she’d grown to adore because they made him look smart and professorial, like her father had been. “It’s weighing on me.”
So itwaswork. He really couldn’t talk about his patients for confidentiality reasons, but she could practically taste his need to unburden himself.
“How about a glass of wine on the roof?” she suggested.
He threw her a wry smile. “So I can talk about what I can’t talk about?”
