Page 90 of Best Served Cold

“I know I don’t.” She stiffens. “I know I usually dress plainly. But it’s because I always feel so self-conscious when I get dolled up. Like I’m playing dress-up.”

Vulnerability lines every word, and I run my fingers up and down her arm again, reminding her I’m right there with her. “Did you feel self-conscious in the wedding dress?”

“Of course I did. It’s a wedding dress. But I knew I looked good in it, and at least we were at a place people go to celebrate. We’re at a park, but I look like I’m going to the prom.”

This time I’m the one who laughs. “You went to prom in a sundress?”

“I didn’t go at all,” she says. The look on her face suggests this is part of the past she’d rather hide from me.

“You can wear whatever you want, and the only reason people are going to notice or care is because you’re pretty. A lot of people here are wearing sundresses,” I say, nodding toward the field next to the path. Emil gives a salute before returning to his strumming, his smile smug.

I lean in closer, toward her ear. “I grant you, most of them aren’t wearing fuck-me shoes, but I’m the last person who’s going to complain about that. You probably won’t be able to play frisbee in them, but who cares. Frisbee sucks. Now, come meet Emil. He knows the truth, by the way. I don’t lie to the kids in my program. That’s a hard line for me.”

Guilt flickers across her face as she smiles at him. “I’m?—”

She stops herself, which makes me grin. “Look at you, cutting apologies short. I’m proud of you, Soph.”

“Because I’m less polite than I used to be?”

“You’ve never been overly polite with me, just overly apologetic. And before you try to apologize for not being overly polite, I should probably mention that I hate polite people. They’re the worst.”

“Yes,” she says, her eyes dancing, “damn them and their kind ways.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Kindness and politeness are not the same things.”

She eyes the field and then her shoes, looking uncertain.

Fuck it. I sweep her off her feet and start carrying her toward the maple tree, and if people weren’t already watching, they are now.

“What are you doing?” she asks, laughing, and I’ll be damned if she doesn’t kick her feet. It’s up there with watching her jump around on the bed, especially since she’s cradled in my arms when she does it.

“I’m being kind but not polite. Saving those shoes I’ve become so fond of.”

She doesn’t say anything else as I carry her toward the tree, but she leans into my chest. I like the feeling of her there a lot more than I should.

I likehermore than I should, but I tell myself it’s a problem for a different day. I’m here with her now. I’m with Emil. And I have my guitar. There’s not a whole lot to dislike about the moment.

I set her on her feet as we reach Emil, who shifts from jamming to playing “Here Comes the Bride.”

“Very funny, bud,” I say. “This is Sophie.”

He sets the guitar aside and gets up to shake her hand like a man. I’m proud of him, and of her. A warm feeling fills my chest as they smile at each other.

“You’re really good,” Sophie says, pulling back. “Would you play something else for us?”

Music to his ears. He plays and sings softly for another fifteen minutes, then glances mournfully at the dog, who’s comatose in a sunny patch. “I’d better get back”

“This’ll be done soon,” I say, hoping it’s true.

He grins at me. “Hey, let me take a photo for you. You can use it for social media.”

“Oh, joy,” I say dryly. “You know how much I love sharing my private business with complete strangers.”

Sophie gives me an apologetic look, and I hold up a hand. “Don’t even think about saying you’re sorry,” I say. “We’re going to take this photo and post it.”

“Arms around each other,” Emil says, gesturing. “Stand in front of the tree.”

I give him my phone, and we submit to the photo shoot. Sophie stands in front of me, I wrap my arms around her, and she leans her head back so her hair tickles my chest and neck.

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