It’s easier to stay away when you think you might have a chance with Abbi.
Leaving Amy’s message on read, I tap back to the text stream with Abbi. I can’t stop thinking about that kiss—the taste of her, the little moan in the back of her throat, how soft her lips were.
Even if I were dumb enough to fall into Amy’s trap again, I wouldn’t want to after that kiss. Not when it felt so right. Not when it was such a long time coming. And maybe that’s exactly where I need Abbi focused, as well.
Dean: The only mistake was making you feel rushed. Don’t stress tonight, but don’t forget that kiss, either. This is going to happen. And when it does, it’s gonna be good.
Her reply comes quickly.
Abbi: The ego on you.
Dean: Nah. It’s not ego.
Abbi: Then what is it? Don’t tell me.
She follows that text with a line of eggplant emojis, and I grin at my phone.
Dean: Ha! Well, I do have one of those, but that’s not what I meant either. My confidence in our chemistry comes from somewhere else altogether.
Abbi: Don’t leave me hanging.
Dean: Isn’t it obvious? You. That’s what’s gonna make it un-fucking-forgettable.
Chapter Eight
Abbi
Sundays are a short day at work for me. We serve Sunday brunch at The Patio from ten to two, then give the place a good cleaning and close up until Tuesday. Usually, the shift flies by, and a day like today—when the weather is beautiful and the place is packed—is usually over before I realize it.
Today it dragged as a certain someone’s text played on repeat in my head.
This is going to happen. And when it does, it’s gonna be good.
I should’ve gone to his house last night. Should’ve ripped off the bandage and revealed all the awkward disappointment that a night with me truly promises.
Hi, my name’s Abbi, and I make things weird when I get naked.
As it stands, Dean’s starting to make me believe this could be different. That we could be different. It’s a little like climbing the first hill of the rollercoaster and convincing yourself the drop isn’t coming.
I didn’t hear from Dean all day, despite checking my phone three times in the middle of the brunch rush. Every time I looked, a mixture of relief and disappointment flooded me. Relief because this is a really bad idea. Disappointment because I want it anyway.
As I drive home from work, I decide I’ll text him. I’ll feel him out. But I don’t get the chance. Dean is sitting on my front porch swing, flanked by two large paper bags. He’s in worn jeans and a gray athletic shirt that hugs his biceps and chest, and one look at him makes all of my girlie bits stand up at attention.
One kiss undid years of training myself not to notice Dean as anything more than my brother’s best friend. One kiss, and all I can think about is when I might get another.
When I climb from my car, he stands and looks me over, causing a long pulling sensation low in my belly.
Lord help me, but I really, really want this man to touch me again.
I swing my door shut and bleep the locks. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought dinner,” he says, as if it’s a normal occurrence.
I release a nervous laugh as I climb onto the porch. Is he here because he feels obligated to finish what we started? Or does he want to give me the “it was a mistake” speech? Or, oh God, even worse—both? I glance around and decide this isn’t the place to figure it out. I live in an old Victorian that’s been subdivided into four apartments, and while I like all of my neighbors, a couple of them are big fans of gossiping to my mother. Small towns. Gotta love ’em.
“Come on inside,” I say, unlocking the door. If they tell Mom that Dean showed up and went into my apartment with me, she won’t question it. But if they overhear us talking about him teaching me how to be a decent lay? Well, I’m not sure a person can actually die of mortification, but I’d rather not test that theory.
Dean follows me into my apartment, a bag in each hand, and heads straight to my kitchen. I think he’s been here a total of two times, but you wouldn’t know it by the way he moves around. He heads straight to my kitchen like he owns the place and begins to pull containers out of the bags. “I wasn’t sure what you’d be in the mood for, but then I realized you can never go wrong with bar food and picked up a bunch of stuff at Smithy’s.” He goes to the cupboard and pulls out a couple of wine glasses and then opens a few more doors until he finds the plates. He retrieves flatware from the drawer and starts filling the plates.