Page 89 of Your Place or Mine

Mostly because I was too busy watching her walk away.

And trying not to wonder what the hell I’d do if I let myself fall into her orbit.

Because the truth was I already had.

I was already regretting the clean shirt.

When I went home and changed and returned to town, I couldn’t wait to see her again.

Not because it was uncomfortable. It was soft, decent enough to pass for something intentional. But because sitting here at the café, waiting for Lydia, made me feel exposed. Like I’d dressed upfor her.

Which I had.

I drummed my fingers against the edge of the table, watching the condensation on my glass slide down, ignoring the flutter of nerves that had no business being in my chest.

I’d kissed her.

Then I’d wounded her.

And now here I was, trying to fix something with dinner and a shirt that didn’t smell like sawdust and wood smoke.

The door creaked open behind me.

And I knew.

I didn’t even have to turn.

Something in the air shifted—charged, tight, electric—and I nearly forgot how to function when I looked up.

Lydia walked in like the air belonged to her.

Hair loose. Dress hugging her just enough to wreck a man’s composure. Her lips were soft with something faintly glossy, and there was the slightest flush on her cheeks like she’d stood in front of a mirror and wondered if this was a mistake.

It wasn’t.

It was the best damn idea I’d ever had.

She spotted me. Gave me a small, wary smile that hit me dead in the chest.

And then she walked over.

I stood, knocking my knee on the table because my body had decided to short-circuit.

“You okay?” she asked, already amused.

“Yeah. Yep. Just… good. You look—”

Careful. Don’t make it weird.

“Great,” I said.

She raised a brow. “You sure?”

“Not even a little.”

Her laugh broke through the wall in my chest like sunshine through fog.

God, I’d missed that sound.

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