Page 17 of Blocked Score

Not that Lane and I are dating. We haven’t even kissed.

But even though I’ve still held back from crossing that line, he doesn’t seem to have lost any interest.

I can’t help but compare him with Caleb. My ex, who would be pouty and annoyed any time I didn’t want to do anything physical. Who never made me feel bubbly lightness in my chest. Who I just dated because he was there, convenient, and I guess because it felt nice to be wanted for once.

What a foundation to rest two years of my young life on, right?

I marvel at how fast the time slipped away. Just two years ago, I was graduating high school with a pretty good GPA and almost perfect SAT scores. My life might have been pretty shitty, but at least I was about to go to college.

Then I met Caleb, and he convinced me to take a gap year.

Then, after a year went by, he was so dismissive every time I talked about taking some classes at the local community college to prepare to transfer to a four-year school to get a degree, that I shifted the whole idea to the backburner for a while.

I worked crappy jobs, lived in Caleb’s apartment, and stagnated. Like he did. I think he liked it that way.

I gather the effort to push those thoughts out of my head. This trip is supposed to be a reset, a prelude to a new beginning. Not about dwelling on the past.

When Lane shows up, he’s utterly soaked from head to toe. My jaw drops, and a laugh pops out of my mouth as he walks toward where I’m sitting, so wet that I can see the hard lines of his muscles underneath the soaked-throat shirt clinging to his body. So wet that I can hear the squishing of his shoes as he strides over.

“Lane! Why didn’t you get an umbrella?”

He shrugs, so wet that the motion has rivulets sluicing down his frame and falling to his damp feet. “I was in a hurry to get here.”

A warm, snug feeling curls in my chest at his answer, even while I’m rolling my eyes at him.

“I brought you something.” He holds a big, lumpy bag up in his right hand.

“What?” I ask.

He holds it open by the handles. “Shoes.”

I lose the ability to speak for a minute when I look inside the bag and confirm that it’s full of multiple pairs of comfy-looking women’s sneakers.

My gaze bounces between Lane’s face and the interior of the bag. I’m trying to say something, but my tongue can’t form the words.

“I didn’t know what size you were, so I kind of guessed and bought a couple pairs. Figure one of them has to fit. There was a shoe store on the way, and you said your feet hurt, so …” he shrugs.

Oh my gosh.

My heart feels pierced, but somehow not in a painful way. It’s a paradox. My expression is frozen as I process this, until I feel ahot prickling at the edges of my eyes and a burning at the bridge of my nose.

Finally, my brain reconnects with my tongue. “You bought me …” I do a quick mental count. “Four pairs of shoes?”

His grin is warm, and the way his eyes hold mine makes me feel like he’s reaching through them.

“Hopefully one pair fits.”

I suck in a big breath through my nose, blinking away the sting in my eyes because I don’t need to turn into a big, mushy mess in this bar over a guy I haven’t even kissed yet.

I actually don’t think anyone’s ever done something this nice for me in my life.

I distract myself from the swell of emotion thrumming in my chest by rustling through the bag and finding my size.

“Perfect,” I tell Lane. “And thank you. Really. This is …”

He just shrugs again. “No big deal.” He pulls out the stool next to mine and takes a seat, playfully nudging his foot against mine. “Can’t have these feet suffering any more damage than they already have.”

I moan in relief when I finally pull the shoes off and sink my feet into the roomy sneakers. “Fuck, that feels good,” I sigh.

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