She is…breathtaking.
Just looking at her is enough to make my entire body go warm and a knot form in my chest. It’s the same ache from this afternoon, that longing to reach out, to touch her, to pull her against me, where something primal within me still insists she belongs.
When she stops a few feet away, looking up at me with a shy smile, I want to drag her into my arms, fist my fingers in her hair, and kiss her until neither one of us can breathe.
Instead, I nod and turn toward the entrance without a word.
I refuse to succumb to temptation with this woman, not tonight or any other night.
“Well, hello to you, too,” she says in a teasing tone, clearly determined to ignore my cool reception. “Here, let me pay for the tickets.” She rests her hand on mine, stopping me as I reach for my wallet.
“I’ve got it.” My voice is as flat as it was this afternoon, hopefully giving no clue that her touch—our first touch in fifteen years—still makes my heart beat faster.
“Don’t be silly. It’s for charity. Besides, you’re my date. The rules say I pay.”
Before I can offer further protest, Naomi slips around me, steps up to the booth, and begins quizzing the attendant about the various ticket packages.
Beyond the entrance, kids swarm over colorful playground equipment and couples and families wander among the attractions set up all over the park. There are games, nature exhibits, local artists and crafters selling their wares, and best of all, a cluster of food tents causing delicious smells to waft through the air. I spot a teen boy gnawing on a roasted ear of corn, and my mouth immediately begins to water.
As Naomi accepts an obscenely large roll of tickets from the cashier—it will take us hours to play that many games—my stomach growls. Loudly.
She smiles over her shoulder. “So, food first, I guess?” she asks with a laugh.
I shrug. “I could eat.” I fight the urge to return her smile.
She’s always had an infectious grin, but I have been vaccinated against it. I am immune to her charms and refuse to respond to her with anything but civility. Nothing more.
“Great!” she says with stubborn enthusiasm. “I’m starving. I had cookies for lunch, and they are long gone. So what do you think?”
She pauses, studying the vendor signs above the various tents and booths surrounding the soccer field, which is presently packed with picnic tables and feasting locals. “The southern girl in me says giant turkey leg and cheddar mashed potatoes, but my inner gourmet is curious about the Thai food. When did Bliss River get a Thai restaurant?”
I shrug again. “Not sure.”
“Have you ever been?” she presses in that same relentlessly perky voice.
“Nope,” I shoot back, determined not to be drawn in.
I will eat whatever she decides we should eat; I will not make this fun for her by spending half an hour discussing the various food options. I know how much she loves shit like that, and I refuse to contribute to her enjoyment.
“Okay.” She starts walking, forgoing the main path to cut through the grass, taking the shortest route to the soccer field. “Then what are you in the mood for? Tacos? Cheesesteak?”
“Don’t care,” I say, falling in behind her.
“You don’t care,” she repeats, irritation creeping into her tone. “Since when do you not care about what you eat?”
“I’m just along for the ride, Whitehouse,” I say. “This is your show.”
She stops, turning to face me beside a patch of evergreen shrubs taller than both of us. The shrubs block my view of the picnic tables, which is good.
If I can’t see my friends and neighbors, they can’t see me. With Naomi.
The last thing I want is for this date to become some kind of sideshow or fodder for the local gossips, though I’m sure the latter will be hard to avoid. Naomi moving back to town is the most exciting—and scandalous—thing to happen in Bliss River since two guys opened a tattoo parlor on Main Street and one of them nearly killed Melody March.
It was by accident—turns out she had an allergy to the latex in the protective gloves—but the gossip was hot and steamy for weeks afterward. Every over-attentive mother in town warned her kids to stay far away from that shop and every wanna-be rebel over the age of eighteen couldn’t book an appointment fast enough.
Last time I checked, there was a two-month waiting list for a consultation.
“What does that mean?” Naomi asks, propping her hands on her hips. “My show?”
“It means you’re calling the shots. Pick something and I’ll eat it.”
“What if I don’t want to pick something?” She arches a brow.
I exhale and shrug yet again. “Then we don’t have to eat. Whatever you want.”
“I want you to stop shrugging,” she says with an exasperated huff. “I thought we agreed to be civil.”