Page 36 of The Jilted Lovers Club
She swats at me playfully as we cross the bridge to the parking lot. Her hand swings close to her hip, and every muscle in me tenses with the effort not to reach for it. Holding her hand on the river already felt bold enough.
Truth is, I’m not used to this.
Before Sasha, if I liked a girl, I made a move. No hesitation. Just said it like it was;I like you. You’re hot. Want to fuck?
Sasha flipped that script. She came on fast, took control, and I didn’t mind.
But with Jordy, everything feels different. Holding her hand felthuge.Like I’m back in high school, trying not to screw up the one shot I might get.
We change at the truck, pulling sweats over our swimsuits. The sky starts to cloud over again, stealing what little warmth we snagged earlier. I catch the last glimpse of her smooth, perfectstomach as she tugs on her sweatshirt and nearly lose the ability to speak.
Perv.
“Okay,” she says, hopping into the passenger seat. “Now can you tell me?”
I shake my head, barely hiding a smile. This giddiness is new. My life is usually made up of three things: my daughter, the farm, and the handful of people in my circle. Everything else is black and white.
But with Jordy, it all feels like color. Like maybe there’s room for more.
We stop at the corner business on the same street as The Till, or rather, Timeless. On the opposite end is one of my favorite places in town: The Painted Nest, our local art gallery.
“Lahoma Springs isn’t just tractors and livestock,” I say, stopping her at the door. “We’ve got a growing community of artists. This place showcases a lot of them.”
I open the door.
Jordy steps inside, takes one breath, and freezes. “Oh. Wow.”
Her hand brushes my bicep as we enter, and I have to actively focus onnotreacting to the warmth of her fingers.
In the center of the gallery stands a life-size elephant sculpture made entirely of broken porcelain plates. The thing is stunning—realistic in form, but impossibly intricate in detail. I watch Jordy walk around it, hands behind her back like she’s in a museum.
“It’s okay to touch,” a woman calls from the front desk. She’s all red—dress, lips, even her shoes—and her short, dark curls framed her face like a retro painting. “It’s part of the experience. A tactile display.”
Jordy hesitates, then lifts one finger to brush the tiles. Her palm follows, soft and reverent. I copy her—not because I careabout the sculpture, but because watching her touch it makes me wonder what it would feel like if she touchedmethe same way.
We wander the gallery slowly. At each piece, Jordy leans in, quiet and focused, like the wrong breath might disturb the art. Her wonder is contagious. I’ve seen these pieces several times this past month, but everything feels new through her eyes.
She pauses extra-long at one painting. It’s of a young monk in a red robe, standing alone in a narrow boat, drifting across still water while surrounded by the blue of twilight.
“This one’s my favorite,” I say quietly.
She steps back to take it all in. “The red. The water. The gold in the boat. It’s like a meditation.”
“How so?” I ask, though I can’t stop watching her instead of the canvas.
She turns to me, and her eyes lock on mine.
“Because it reminds me to breathe—even as it takes my breath away.”
For a beat, I can’t speak. Her face, flushed from the sun. Her lips, parted just slightly. I feel my hand twitch, the need to touch her almost overpowering. I reach for her—
Just as she breaks eye contact and moves on to the next painting, my hand hovering in air with nothing to grasp.
“Jordy!”
We round the corner to see Grace hurrying toward us, her arms wide. She pulls Jordy into a hug, though Jordy’s return is stiff at best.
“Well, hello you two!” Grace grins, looking to me, then back at Jordy. “Are you on a date?”
