Page 157

Five simple words. And suddenly I wanted to cry all over again. Because I couldn't wait to see him either. Couldn't wait to feel his hand in mine. Couldn't wait to dance with him. Couldn't wait to kiss him.

And I desperately wanted to believe tomorrow wouldn't change any of those things.

Me: See you soon, cowboy.

I slipped my phone into my clutch. I had one more day with Damon Lockhart. One more day to pretend we belonged to each other.

And for the first time in my life, I had absolutely no plan for what came next.

Except one. Try not to fall any harder. Which, judging by the ridiculous smile on my face, was already a spectacular failure.

26

THE DAMN BUTTON

Damon

I'd been staring at the same damn button on my shirt for three minutes.

It wasn't a complicated button. Standard issue. White. Round. Four little holes. I'd been operating buttons successfully since preschool. Yet here I was, thirty years old, standing in my childhood bedroom, apparently defeated by one. I’d had to rebutton my shirt twice because I’d lined it up wrong.

I blamed Mikayla Parsons. Which was becoming a theme in my life. I'd spent the better part of two years trying to get that woman to give me the time of day. Now, after four days of having her practically glued to my side, I couldn't seem to function without her.

It was embarrassing.

I checked my phone, again. That made eleven times in the past hour. She’d been radio silent for the last two. No texts. No calls.

I finally managed to button my shirt and grabbed the tie hanging off the bedpost.

I hadn't seen Mikayla since this morning. Eight hours and counting. I was feeling withdrawals. She’d spent the day with her cousin, doing wedding-day things.

I loosened my collar.

There were certain things in life I knew I could never get enough of, things that would never go out of style. Evergreen favorites. Good coffee. A comfortable pair of boots. The sound of rain hitting a tin roof.

And now I needed to add Mikayla Parsons to that list.

Her laugh. Her sarcasm. The way she wrinkled her nose when she was trying not to smile. The way she looked at me sometimes, like she was surprised at our connection, at what she felt.

It had only been three nights, but I'd gotten used to her being the last thing I saw at night and first thing I saw in the morning. And tonight could be our last night together. There was an internal clock I couldn’t shut off screaming at me that our time was running out.

I looked at my phone again.

Still nothing.

"Pathetic," I muttered.

"Well, at least you're self-aware."

I turned to find my mother standing in the doorway.

"Still not a fan of knocking, huh?" Growing up, my mom used to just walk into our rooms. She’d caught more than one of my brothers, not naming names, enjoying private time. It traumatized them, she wasn’t bothered.

“Still not a fan of answering your mother’s text."

I glanced at my phone. Three unread messages. All from Mom.

Huh. "Must've missed them."