Page 33
Show her I can be more.
Be incomparable to any other date.
I grab my keys before I can talk myself out of any of this and mumble to myself, “Throw her off-kilter, surprise her. Show her I can be more.” Be enough.
***
I pull up to Riley’s house five minutes early, because apparently I hate myself, and decipher if I should knock or not. The sky’s already sliding into that late-October gold earlier than last year, and it makes Willow Creek look like it’s been dipped in warm honey. Kids are playing football in the cul-de-sac down the street, leaves skitter across the road, and my palms are sweating so bad on the steering wheel I might as well have dunked them in the creek.
Knocking is the right thing to do, right? I like to think it is the gentlemanly route, right? Then again, I’ve never really been labeled as gentlemanly. I’m not even sure it’s a word.
I’m adjusting the AC vents for the third time when her front door opens.
And—Oh. I am screwed.
Felicity steps out onto the porch wearing a rust-orange top and jeans that hug her waist, loose at the ankles where they meet worn-in boots. Her hair’s down, brushed over one shoulder, catching the last of the daylight around us.
She spots me and waves with a grin.
I swear I forget how to turn my neck for a full three seconds, because she’s suddenly opening the passenger door and climbing in, pulling the warm smell of cinnamon and her honey shampoo into my truck.
“I—I wanted to knock,” I bumble out.
“Oh, want me to go back in so you can try? I heard you pull up and figured I should head out.”
“No.” My head shakes side to side. “It’s fine.”
Except some other guy would probably knock.
Future date: 1. Me: 0.
“You look nice,” she says, leaning in…way too close. Her nose scrunches. “Are you wearing…cologne?”
“What?” I swat gently at her hand—because she’s sniffing me like Lottie’s golden retriever. “No. I mean—maybe. Just stop.”
“I like it.”
My brain completely flatlines.
“You do?” It comes out too fast, too hopeful.
“Yeah. It reminds me of Rowen’s car.”
Fantastic. “I’ve been in your boss’s car, that is not the compliment you think it is.”
She cackles and buckles her seatbelt before tugging her top into place, the warm rust color brushing against her skin. “It smells comforting.”
I clear my throat. “Ready?”
She nods, all easy smiles, and I put the truck in drive.
“I think you look nice too; I like that color.”
Felicity pulls at the sleeves of her sweater. “Look at us: dressing nice and wearing cologne. I think we’re going to be experts before the month is over.”
If only she knew that under this cologne is a guy absolutely losing his mind over the fact that this—her climbing into my truck, wearing that sweater, looking at me like I’m not about to wreck the entire vehicle—is the scariest thing he’s ever walked into.
And we’re not even at the haunted house yet.
