Page 63 of Afternoon Delight
“Thanks,” he said, though his voice lacked enthusiasm.
I really wished there was more I could do.
After a minute, he asked, “Do you mean you want to host dementia caregiver therapy sessions in your shop? Next to the dildos?”
I absolutely did not, but I gave him my best look of wide-eyed innocence.
“Is it bad taste to invite burnt-out, emotionally distressed people into the shop under the guise of helping them so I can push sex toys on them?”
“Works for me. As you well know.”
A wave of happy-sad laughter hit me. I was glad to see him rallying toward humor, but I realized how much he used jokes to cover up genuine anguish—deep, rough, rocky emotional waters.
“We actually have enough space in our shop to hold meetings there,” he mused. “God knows we have enough furniture.” His gaze drifted into the middle distance, but it was a glimmer of movement out of his dark spiral, so I encouraged it.
“What I’m hearing is that you want to poach my workshop attendees and sell them your dusty old knick-knacks. Shameless.”
“Never claimed to be any different.”
We stuck to meaningless banter for the rest of the meal. I offered to drive him to Zara’s after I paid.
“Thanks. And hey.” He stopped me in the parking lot. “Thank you for this. I felt like I’d been hit by a truck when you found me.”
“Now it’s only one of those little two-seater smart cars?”
“Self-driving electric. No one at the wheel to blame, just a short-circuit somewhere. Bad luck.”
“No kidding. But seriously, anytime.”
“Thanks.” His arms came up then faltered.
I moved in to hug his waist.
He folded his arms around me and held me tight and hard. Really hard. His chin rested against my hair. “I mean it, Meg. Thank you.”
The sky was spitting on us, but he was warm and strong—and so shaken I had to rub his back, trying to soothe him. He could hold me as long as he needed. I only wished I could give more. Do more.
Oh, God. I really was in free fall, wasn’t I?
He took an uneven breath, his chest rising under my ear, but he didn’t let me go.
“I knew you would feel like this.” His voice sounded different. Still unsteady, but for a different reason.
I ignored the way my blood turned to warm honey.
“How’s that?” I lifted my face to look at him in the light from the bulb mounted on the side of the building.
“Good.” His grin tugged sideways, rueful. “I think about you a lot. How it would feel to kiss you. Do other things.” His brow lifted. “I thought maybe you should know that.”
“That is very unexpected news, considering ninety percent of our conversations revolve around sex.” I was trying hard not to let his words mean more than they did.
“Tell me you think about it too, so I know I’m not a degenerate.”
“That ship has sailed, sir.”
“Fair.” Another sideways grin, this one fuller. More lighthearted.
We were still holding on to each other, pressed close, sharing amused smirks.
