Page 30 of Holding On To Good

He stopped rubbing her back. “You’re a man-eating fish?”

“Of course not. You know my spirit animal is a jaguar. I’m a piranha.” Wait. Hadn’t she just said that? She tried again. “A pir… an… ha.” Lifting her head, she frowned up at him. “I think my mouth is broken.”

His own mouth twitched, like he was fighting a grin. “You’re a pariah.”

She sniffed. “You think so, too?”

His smile broke loose, which was weird. He shouldn’t be smiling at her now, should he? Not when she was crying.

Men. So difficult.

“Let’s get you home,” he said, and she realized they were on the porch again. How did that happen? “Then you can tell me all about it.”

She wiped her face dry on his shirt. Sniffed again. “Okay.”

He led her across the porch then stopped at the top of the stairs. Glared down at them.

She did the same. “Why are we mad at the stairs?”

“We’re not. We’re mad at the driveway.” He leaned her against a porch post. “Don’t. Move.”

“I won’t,” she said, holding up her hand to give him her solemn vow. “Promise.”

He jogged down the steps, the lights on his truck flashing as he used his key fob to unlock it.

And she slid down the post to the floor.

A minute later, he returned and she tipped her head up to look at him. “I slipped.”

“I see that.” Reaching down, he helped her to her feet. “Hold on.”

Before she could ask what she was supposed to hold on to, he swept her into his arms. It would have been super romantic if the motion hadn’t triggered another bout of dizziness. And if it hadn’t been Urban doing the sweeping and carrying, because there was nothing romantic between them.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she squeezed her eyes shut and laid her head on his shoulder. All too soon, he was setting her gently on the passenger side seat of his extended-cab white truck. She started to tip to the left and he straightened her. Pulled the seat belt across her, leaning over her.

“Your hair is so soft.” She sifted her fingers through the soft, thick strands. “Don’t cut it. I like it this way.”

He reared up, but she kept her hand on his head, her fingers twined in his hair. “Urban,” she murmured, trailing her fingertips across his upper cheek above his beard.

His inhale was soft, and for a moment, they stayed that way, her fingers on his cheek, their gazes locked.

But when she started to slide her hand around to cup his face, to pull him closer, he jerked upright, rapping the top of his head against the top of the doorframe.

“Ouch,” she said, reaching out to brush over the spot he’d hit.

He stepped back.

“Arm in,” he said, short and clipped and grumpy as all get out.

Frowning at him, she jerked her arm against her side, but he didn’t seem to notice he was in big trouble, mister, for being so grouchy, because he didn’t apologize or soften his own harsh expression, he just shut the door.

Men and their mercurial moods.

She planned on giving him hell for his attitude the moment he climbed into the truck but holding her head up was too much effort and she had to rest it against the door. But he was still going to get an earful from her.

Except it was so very warm in the truck. Cozy with the orange glow of the setting sun over the water, and her eyes drifted shut.

When she realized it, she opened them wide. Stared out at the water, forcing herself not to even blink for one second. Then two.

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