Page 24 of Give & Take

“Yeah!” Aurora cries, her curls bouncing as she bounds back up the stairs in front of me.

“Mom says this is a trial run,” Nova says, bringing me back down to reality when I get up there.

I re-hike my duffel bag on my shoulder. “Pshh. We’ll see about that.”

“What’s a trial run?” Aurora asks, confused. “Does that mean you’re going running with Mom?”

“It means he might not stay,” Nova says.

“What?” Aurora looks crestfallen.

“I know,” Nova says. She looks both pleased to be delivering this bad news and disappointed, like she’s doesn’tlikethe news.

I want to reassure them there’s no way I’m going anywhere, but we’re not there yet. “Listen,” I say, crouching down, but leveling a look at Nova. “Whether or not I stay is up to how happyyou guysare, okay? If you’re happy and we’re all having fun, then your mom’s happy, and I get to stay. If you guys aren’t happy, I have to go.” We all consider this a moment. Then I add, “Also, if I screw up, I’ll have to go too. So I need you guys to help me not screw up, okay?”

“How do we do that?” Aurora asks, looking like this is a daunting task. She’s probably not wrong.

“By having the best summer ever!” I exclaim. “Right, Nova?”

Nora’s brows are furrowed together as she parses through my logic.

“Just go with it, okay?” I suggest.

“Okay. I guess.”

We do a low high-five hand slide and I think we’re good.

When we step inside, I’m greeted once again by the open space—a tastefully decorated living room with plush sectional and colorful paintings, dining area with its heavy table and chairs, and blue and white kitchen. But my eyes glide over all of those, landing like a homing beacon on Lana.

She’s standing at the kitchen island next to the remnants of kids’ breakfasts, rearranging items in a small backpack. She’s wearing black running shorts and a little pink running tank top, and her hair’s done up in a tight bun on her head.

If I were a cartoon character I’d make the old car horn sound.

I manage to restrain myself, setting my bag by the front door and walking over to her. I stop on the opposite side of the island, which seems to surprise her. “Good morning, Lana,” I say politely.

“Mr. LaForest.” Lana blinks. Her jaw ticks just slightly. Then she turns to the sink, where she picks up a water bottle, screwing on its lid.

When she turns around, a splash of water sloshes out onto the floor.

“Shit,” Lana swears.

I’m there in an instant, kneeling by her side with the towel she’d been reaching for. I pat the little spill in a few quick seconds.

But my eyes catch on a drop of water on her bare leg. I pause, nearly spellbound.

I won’t touch it. I can’t. But I’m mesmerized by theidea of cupping her calf; brushing the droplet away with my thumb. I think of not breaking contact as my fingers glide up to that soft stretch of skin on the back of her lower thigh. Being on my knees for Lana makes me feel almost intoxicated. I have to clench my jaw not to tell her this. I reallyreallywant to tell her how perfect she is.

And shit, I’m still kneeling beside her. I stand up. But because of our position I’m much closer to her than I intended to be. She looks up at me, and for a moment, our eyes lock. A frisson of energy seems to bounce across the space between us.

I feel like when I was a kid at the science center and they let us touch the glass orb filled with zapping strands of lightning. I want to touch her to see if all my hair will stand up.

But then Lana clears her throat, taking the towel from me. “Laundry’s over here,” she says tightly, walking around to a short hallway behind the kitchen. I let out a breath as she disappears. I’m not sure if she wants me to follow—probably not if it’s a small, enclosed space.

Over by the front door, the girls poke at my duffel. “I’ll give you guys a prize if you can guess three things inside.” It’s extremely lumpy and filled with a whole sports equipment store worth of stuff. “Take your time,” I say.

When Lana returns a second later, her skin is flushed. Maybe it’s from bending down to toss the towel in the washer. Or maybe it’s me.

“I trust you had a good weekend,” Lana says briskly, clearly wanting to move on.

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