Page 88 of Love Notes & Lifelines
“My mom would always wash my stuff with Cally’s,” he says. “More than once my uniforms ended up pink or blue or whatever color she’d thrown in with mine.” His brow pinches but his stare is vacant, like a memory is consuming him. He shrugs and looks away when he catches me staring. “Um, my state championship was the final straw. I showed up and had no choice but to wear a tie-dyed uniform.”
My eyes are wide as I suppress a laugh.
“She’d washed it with one of her latest craft projects.” This time he shakes his head, but it does nothing to change the emptiness in his gaze. “She always had projects to do. But now that I think about it, I think Cally did my laundry. She…she got in trouble for ruining my mom’s painted pillowcase.”
“Oh no,” I say.
“Yeah.” He offers me a weak smile that’s not enough to show even a hint of dimple. “Um, after that, I did my own. I’ve always been independent.” He grabs a T-shirt and folds it into a perfect rectangle, but I fear the memory has made him sad.
“What sport?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Hmm?” He hums. His attention is concentrated on attempting to fold Emmy’s panties.
“What sports did you play growing up?” I put him out of his misery and take the underwear from him. Emmy doesn’t care if they’re folded.
“Tennis, golf, and swimming. I still hold two state records from my senior year swim team.” Pride beams from those crooked lips and thankfully, the sadness fades from his features.
Golf, tennis, and swimming? Has he ever utilized teamwork?
“That’s—interesting.”
He pauses with a T-shirt in his hand. “What’s interesting?”
“Well, you chose three independent sports. You didn’t have to rely on a teammate to succeed. And you’re kind of the same way in your office. You do everything yourself until you can’t and then you outsource it. Even then, you’d rather hire someone than ask a friend. Leo tried to help you fix the railing on the dock last week and you wouldn’t let him.”
“I didn’t know you were analyzing my every move. And you’re one to talk, by the way.”
I must frown because he rolls his eyes. I snort. There’s something about this man in particular rolling his eyes that makes him appear softer, more approachable.
“You are,” he insists. “Case in point,” he says, holding up a pair of jeans that have my bra clinging to them. I lean forward to rip it from his hands, but he pulls the clothing out of reach, removes the bra from the jeans, and holds it in his lap.
What the heck is he doing? I try to ignore the fact that he’s holding my bra by folding the rest of the laundry as quickly as possible.
I attempt to stand, but he tugs on my arm, and I fall back down.
“We’re very similar in a lot of ways.” His voice is thoughtful.
I’m not sure I’m ready for a serious conversation with him.
“I guess,” I deflect. “More different than alike though.”
He shakes his head and holds up my bra. “We haven’t talked about what happened upstairs.”
Suddenly the temperature is about twenty degrees too hot.
“It’s okay.” I look at anything but him. “I’m sure you’re about to say it was a mistake, and that’s okay. I get it. We really don’t have to talk about it.”
He tugs on my ponytail until all I can see is him, and my mouth hangs open in shock. The angle exposes my neck. It draws his attention to my pulse which makes it race wildly. This close, the scent of him, fresh cut grass and spice, has my body melting into him even more.
“What are you doing?” The words are whisper-soft as I arch into him.
“Was it a mistake, though?” His gaze heats my core.
I swallow and because he’s holding me to him, it makes a gulping sound.
“Wasn’t it?” Every gasp of breath I take surrounds me with moreBeck.
“It should have been,” he says, lowering his day-old scruff to my cheek. He places gentle kisses along my jaw, and I exhale a shaky breath. “But I can’t seem to make that connection work in my brain. Every time you’ve ignored this conversation for the last two weeks, I’ve almost lost my fucking mind, so what does that tell you?”
