Page 8 of Dear Southern Belle
His directness surprises me. “I might have been looking for you too.”
“Good, because I wanted to come over and see if you were interested in going out with me tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow?” I think for a moment, trying to remember if I already had plans or not. I don’t. “Tomorrow should be good.”
“Great.” He hands me his phone. “Put in your number so you can text me your address and I will pick you up eight.”
I plug in my number and hand him back his phone. Our fingers graze and I know he feels the same spark of electricity I do.
“I wish I could stay and talk with you longer,” He points over his shoulder to Mr. Foster, the ornery old man that lives in the old Victorian on the outskirts of town. “But I’m here with my grandfather. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“You will.”
He smiles and starts backing up in the direction of his grandfather. I give him a little wave.
“Who was that?” Momma asks next to me, making me jump.
I tear my gaze off Braden’s retreating form to meet her concerned stare. For a woman who has been trying to set me up with every available guy that crosses her path. The expression on her face when she stares after Braden makes her look like she swallowed a bug.
“Just a guy I met.”
“What’s his name?” she asks.
Family pedigree has always been important to Momma. She’s has expectations for who I will marry.
“His name is Braden Holt.”
“Holt?”
We both watch him walk over to Mr. Foster and they walk off together. Braden glances back over his shoulder at me and smiles. It’s innocent enough but for some reason, it also feels intimate and I don’t like that Momma has seen the moment.
“You can’t see him again,” Momma’s voice penetrates my thoughts.
I turn to stare at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“He’s Delilah Foster’s son.”
“Why does that matter?”
“It matters because I said so. You don’t know his parents, but I do. And I don’t want you to see him again.”
The expression on Momma’s face tells me that I better not push this issue. She’s not telling me the specifics, but whatever her reason, it’s something she will never change her mind on.
“Promise me,” she says, gripping my shoulders.
“I promise,” I say, but the words taste bitter in my mouth.
