Page 28 of Holding On To Good

Could they?

Something to look up online later.

“Not that I’ve ever heard of anyone’s face getting eaten off by a rat.” She went on, “But it seems like something they’d do. They’re kind of assholes that way.”

His mouth moved.

She leaned forward, right ear turned toward him. “What?”

He said something else and she remembered she still had her earbuds in.

“Sorry,” she said again, taking them out, and since she had nowhere to put them, she just dropped them to the floor. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You look…” She wrinkled her nose and studied him, never a hardship for her.

He didn’t work out like he used to, back when he’d been a star baseball player for Mount Laurel High School and then Penn State. But he still kept in great shape, his body something to be admired—discreetly, of course, as friends since grade school and platonic business partners did not ogle each other.

It wouldn’t be polite.

The material of his faded black T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders and wide chest, draped looser over his flat stomach. His hair was a few weeks past needing a trim and fell in dark brown waves around a face that, underneath the beard—more red than brown—was chiseled with a sharp jawline and that slight dent to the left of his mouth.

Man, how she missed that dimple.

But there was something awful yummy about his beard, too.

He had a strong brow and light brown eyes that reminded her of newly polished oak. That made her feel all soft and squishy and so very feminine when she looked into them.

Made her feel vulnerable and scared to death that if she wasn’t careful, one day he’d see more than she wanted when he looked back.

“I look…?” he prodded and she realized she’d lost her train of thought.

Nothing another sip of champagne couldn’t get back on track. She snorted as she lifted the bottle. Train of thought. Back on track.

She was hilarious.

She lowered the bottle and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “You look upset.”

“You almost hit me with a bottle.”

“Accidetely… Accitend… Not on purpose,” she settled on. “You scared me. It was reflex. Next time you should announce yourself. Let a person know you’re here.”

“I did. You didn’t hear me.”

“Oh. Sorry. Again.”

It was his turn to speak, to tell her that all was forgiven, because this was Urban and he’d forgive her for anything, but he didn’t. Didn’t forgive her or seem interested in saying anything at all.

Man of few words, thy name is Urban Jennings.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He sent a longing glance up at the heavens and she followed his gaze, hoping to find an answer to her question, but all she saw was the same popcorn ceiling she’d stared at moments ago.

“We had a meeting,” he finally said. “At seven.”

She hiccupped. “We did?”

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