Page 58 of Ten Day Affair
Okay. Swifty’s at 6:30. I’ll grab us a spot if I get there first.
I've already told him I'm always late. Of course I won't get there first.
Perfect. See you there.
I read that last one twice. Then again. He's looking forward to it...
My body sings like it’s been given an electric charge, and I can’t tell if I’m more terrified or thrilled.
I lock the screen, press the phone to my chest, and lean back again with a slow exhale.
This is fine. This is just a fun night between neighbors. With no supervision or buffer. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, laughing softly to no one.
God help me.
FOURTEEN
Cole
I spot her the moment she walks onto the patio, and the practiced smile I’d lined up goes straight to hell.
She’s in a simple, knee-length deep green tank dress that dips just enough to make it criminal. Sun-kissed legs, flip-flops, that loose, swingy ponytail that somehow looks more deliberate than styled. She’s effortless. And my mouth goes dry.
I stand from our table near the back, just far enough from the speakers to talk without yelling. The band’s tuning up behind us, strumming lazy chords that hum beneath the low din of laughter and clinking glasses.
“Hey,” I say, pulling out the empty chair beside me. “You look like trouble.”
Sam slides in without missing a beat. “You need better lines, Houston.”
"I thought you were getting here first," I tease.
“Hey, I'm early. It's 6:30 on the dot.”
"That's called being on time."
"Easy, tiger. This is early for me."
"I got here at 6:00. I figured there would be a crowd, and I'm glad I got here early. I knew you wouldn't be able to get here that early. It's been nice people-watching."
She glances around the venue. String lights stretch overhead, worn wrought iron tables and beach chairs are scattered across the lawn. A few servers are weaving through with plastic drink trays.
Her gaze lingers on the stage, then shifts back to me.
“This is perfect. Nice job on the table. Not too far but close enough,” she says, nodding toward the bar.
I lift a brow. “I already ordered. Figured white felt right. They’ve got a decent Vermentino.”
Her lips twitch. “How do you know what I like?”
“You ordered it at Seaside Terrace. Plus, you ladies were drinking white wine last night. I pay attention.”
“Creepy or impressive?” she asks, taking the glass I slide her way.
“You tell me.”
She lifts the wine, takes a slow sip, then lets the glass rest against her bottom lip for a second too long. A smile threatens. “TBD.”
The breeze picks up, carrying a swirl of jasmine from the potted vines at the edge of the patio. The guitarist starts a slow DMB intro, and her foot brushes mine under the table. She doesn’t pull back.
