Kenny fought back the pang of disappointment. She was grateful that they’d had a lovely, conflict-free morning and had hoped it would continue a little longer.
They might not have had any meaningful conversations but at least they hadn’t been in that uncomfortable space where simply being near each other was painful.
He probably had the right idea. Better to leave now before things got acrimonious again. A single misspoken word was all it would take to tear open their too-fresh wounds.
Only he wasn’t leaving.
He was still staring down at her, and she met his eyes quizzically, not sure what was going on.
His eyebrows were raised, lips quirked and, he held out a competent hand, palm up.
“Well, come on then. Let’s go find your sofa.”
“Wh—” She blinked up at him uncomprehendingly. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re not going to find great furniture places in Riversend. I’ll borrow Spencer’s bakkie”—pickup truck—“and we can take a drive to Knysna. If we find something you like there, we can bring it back with us.”
“Oh, but I was just going order something online. From Takealot maybe. They’re bound to have sofas.”
“You can’t arse test an online sofa.”
The comment startled a disbelieving snort of laughter from her.
“What?”
“You know what I mean. You have to sit on it, see if it conforms comfortably to your arse and back. What is the lounging and sprawling capacity? Does it meet the international nap standard? Back to neck ratio?”
“Buy a lot of sofas do you?” Kenny asked, her voice bubbling with laughter.
“This will be the first one,” he said, hand still outstretched and steady. Waiting. “But I’m a fucking expert at sitting on them. I have definite and very strong opinions on what makes a good sofa.”
Kenny eyed his calloused palm for a second longer, before throwing caution to the wind and sliding her hand into his.
She wasn’t sure why he was doing this. Wasn’t sure if it was wise to continue spending still more time with him.
But she was so sick of questioning everything, and for once, decided to just give in to impulse without exhaustively weighing every pro and con.
“Okay. Let’s go,” she said with a reckless grin.
“Too soft,” Smith declared, after burrowing down into the sturdy two-seater, and sitting there for a moment. Kenny was curled up next to him, face turned toward him, while she awaited his verdict.
“The last one was too hard,” she reminded, a little fed up. “The one before that toosquidgy, whatever that means. The one beforethathad irritating fabric. And bef?—”
He held up a finger, effectively shutting her up, and she was instantly annoyed for allowing herself to be silenced by that imperious index finger.
“I saiditchy-making, not irritating,” he corrected and she rolled her eyes.
“Okay, Goldilocks, what is the perfect sofa?”
Not this,” he said, with a smug upward turn of his too-beautiful mouth.
“You’re not even going to be sitting on the damned thing,” she reminded, allowing exasperation to creep into her voice.
“Okay then…doyoulike this sofa?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest, waiting for her reply.
Kenny dragged her upper lip into her mouth and sighed. “Not this one, no.”
“What about the squidgy one?”
