Page 19 of My Merry Mistake
In all my twenty-nine years, I’ve never had a relationship that felt serious enough to think about engagement or marriage, but I do want those things. And I want them with the right person.
How do I know whether or not that’s her?
I walk out to the parking lot just as Raya’s Altima pulls in. I slow my pace because, even though three minutes ago I was surethe best thing for me to do was nothing—the prospect of seeing her is too tempting to ignore.
I walk over to her car and wait as she parks and turns the engine off.
I catch her eye in the rearview mirror and flash her a smile.
Her brow lifts, and she gets out and looks at me. “You know, Finn, sometimes I think you’re stalking me.”
I love it when she says my name.
“Stalking is such a harsh word,” I say, grinning. “Are you just getting here?”
“Uh, no.” She closes the car door and walks toward me. She’s wearing a long khaki-colored coat and a deep green top, and I wonder if she has any idea how beautiful she is. “I just left for coffee.”
She holds up a to-go cup from a little café I know down the street.
“You look pretty today.” I test the waters.
Her mouth flattens into a straight line. “I bet yourgirlfriendalso looks pretty today.”
The guys were right. She’s never going to take me seriously. My “harmless distractions” definitely need to go.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say.
“Does she know that?” She shifts her bag to her other arm.
“She does.” I look away. “We’ve only been out a couple times anyway. It was never really . . .” My voice trails off.
“Never really . . .?”
“Never really serious.”
She gives me a quick, stern nod. “I’m guessing with you, most things aren’t.” She starts to walk around me, and I feel an impulse to stop her walk from leaving.
“Hey—” I say, sharply, reaching out and touching her arm.
She turns, looking at me expectantly.
I have no idea what to say. I didn’t mean to stop her—I just don’t want her to leave yet.
“You’re wrong,” I say, pulling my hand back. “About me.”
“Am I?” She folds her arms. “How so?”
I take a breath, and it feels like a week before I manage, “I am serious. Sometimes.”
Her shoulders soften and relax slightly, but she doesn’t move.
I don’t move.
But my eyes dip to her lips, and I swear I hear a hitch in her breathing.
I want her to say something. I wantmeto say something.
Words aren’t working right now.
