“I’ll tell her.”
He stands there. I rinse another plate. The water runs and the noise from the living room fills the silence that’s building between us—the silence that’s been building since the beach, since his hand on my neck, since the inch we didn’t cross.
“Emma.”
I turn off the water. Look at him.
He’s doing the thing with his jaw. The tight thing. The thing that means he’s holding something back, and the effort of holding it is costing him more than saying it would.
“I’m not good at this,” hesays.
“At what?”
“Whatever this is. I haven’t —” He stops. Pushes his hand through his hair. “I’m out of practice.”
“Me too.”
“You’re not out of practice. You talk to everyone. You’re warm with everyone.”
“That’s not the same thing and you know it.”
He holds my gaze. The kitchen is small and he’s close and the sound of the book club assembling in the next room feels very far away.
“The book they’re reading,” he says. “Michelle showed me the cover.”
My heart drops through the floor. “You saw it.”
“The man on the cover is wearing my exact shirt.”
“Paul —”
“It’s the same flannel. Emma. The same one I’m wearing right now.”
I look. He’s right. It’s not identical, but it’s close enough—dark green flannel, sleeves rolled, collar open. The fictional grumpy boat mechanic on the cover ofGrumpy by the Seais wearing Paul Spencer’s shirt.
“Grandma Hensley picked it,” I say weakly.
“Grandma Hensley is a menace and an artist andI have nothing but respect and fear.” He almost smiles. Almost. “Have a good book club.”
He leaves. The front door closes quietly behind him. Through the window, I watch him walk to Justin’s truck, where Justin is waiting with the engine running. Paul gets in. They pull away.
I stand in the kitchen with wet hands and a hammering heart and the absolute certainty that I am in trouble. Deep, warm, terrifying, flannel-shirt trouble.
“Emma!” Michelle calls from the living room. “Wine’s open and Mads is already on chapter three. Get in here!”
The book club meets in Lottie’s living room on a couch that was in a truck four hours ago, with wine in mismatched glasses because Lottie’s real glasses are in a box labeledKitchen—Maybeand nobody felt like looking.
The group consists of Michelle, Hazel, Jo, Amber, Mads, me, and Lottie—attending her first official meeting as the newest member of Bookaholics Anonymous.
“Welcome to the club,” Hazel says, raising her glass. “The rules are simple. Read the book. Have opinions. Don’t judge anyone’s wine consumption.”
“And whatever happens at book clubstays at book club,” Amber adds. “Except the parts that are too good not to share. Those go directly to Grandma Hensley.”
“Grandma has a separate intelligence channel,” Mads confirms. “She gets a full debrief. It’s non-negotiable.”
Lottie takes a sip of wine. “I read the book.”
“Already?” Jo looks impressed. “We just gave it to you this morning.”
