It took a moment for Matty’s words to sink in. Just long enough for him to gather his coffee and treats.
It’s Pink’s birthday?
“It is,” Matty said, softly chuckling. “I’m kind of guessing you didn’t mean to ask that aloud.”
My cheeks warmed. “Um—”
“Should I give him your birthday wishes, too?”
“No!” I protested, much too fervently judging by the growing smile on Matty’s face.
The lady doth protest too much.
Except I was far from a lady, and I had no problem telling somebody how I felt about them. As somebody who had been on the receiving end of my wrath more than once, Pink knew that better than most.
“You can tell him yourself if you prefer? He’s just around the corner at the hardware store.”
I swallowed, the roof of my mouth suddenly bone-dry. It had only been a few days since my Jared Pink-induced ovaryexplosion brought on by seeing him play with his coach’s daughter.
While shirtless.
And showing off that secret garden of tattoos he kept hidden on his side and back. The way I wanted to trace those lengths of ivy to see how far down they went and if they wrapped all the way around his—
Matty cleared his throat, bringing me out of my daydream. I could feel the sweat starting to pool between my boobs, and this time it wasn’t because of the heat.
Another Pink encounter might mean catastrophe. Birthday or no, I had to protect my reproductive health. There would be no more ovary bursting on my watch.
“Maybe later.” He made for the door. “Oh, good luck tonight!”
“Thanks, Nessa.”
A few minutes later, after I’d gathered my breakfast—and wits—I walked the two blocks toward the bookstore, slowing my pace to soak up the sun’s morning rays. As much as I longed for the impending seasonal shift, I would miss this. Oregonians went days, sometimes weeks without sunshine. One hundred and seventy rain days per year wasn’t for the faint of heart.
Still, I’d take the doom and gloom of the Pacific Northwest any day over the hot and humid South. I could always put on an extra sweater; I couldn’t peel off my skin.
“Nessa Princessa!”
I looked over my shoulder. Only one person in the world called me that, and she was currently barreling at me in a pair of neon green biker shorts and an oversized hoodie, like we were ten years old again. Some things never changed.
“Lani Loo!”
I had just finished setting down my purse and latte when she hurdled into me, wrapping her lithe legs around my waist like a sloth on a tree.
“You’re here.” I spoke into her neck.
“Girl, you know I’ll always come back for you.”
Tears pricked my eyes.
I had never really believed in soulmates—that was June’s thing, not mine—butifI did, Kaylani would be mine. Because my understanding of soulmates had nothing to do with sex or romance.
Our relationship was one that transcended distance and time. We could go months, sometimes years without seeing each other or even texting, and then hang out like no time had passed. That was the rarest type of friendship. The kind worth fighting for.
“You smell like cinnamon.”
My chest vibrated with laughter. “Cardamom.”
She rolled off my body after that, nearly taking my leggings down with her. “When did you get to town?”
