Page 21 of Tee the Season
“Born in the front bedroom. Never left.” I run my fingers over a trunk markedWedding Dress—1965. “This house, this town. It’s enough for her.”
“And you?” His tone is carefully casual. “Ever think about living anywhere else?”
I turn to look at him, which is a mistake because the space forces us too close. His hair’s still damp from the snow, falling across his forehead, and his dark eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
“No,” I say honestly. “This is home. The bookstore, the community, Aunt Mae. It’s enough. I’m satisfied.”
“Satisfied.” He says the word as if he’s testing it.
“What’s wrong with satisfied?”
“Nothing. If it’s true.” He shifts, and his shoulder brushes mine.
“What do you mean?”
“Hays mentioned you haven’t dated since the wedding.”
Of course, he did. “And?”
“And satisfied people usually don’t avoid dating for months.”
Heat floods my face. “I haven’t been avoiding it. There just haven’t been any good options.”
“No?” He’s close enough now I can smell the cold air still clinging to him, mixed with something warm and male. “Not a single person in this whole town?”
I think of Dave from the post office with his friendly smile and predictable conversation about stamp collecting. Dave, who’s perfectly pleasant and utterly, completely boring. Dave, who’s never once made my pulse race or my thoughts scatter.
“There’s someone,” I admit. “Dave. Works at the post office. He’s asked me out twice.”
“And?”
“And he’s nice. I’ve known him since elementary school. He’s…reliable, steady.” I’m listing his qualities as if I’m trying to convince myself. “He’s just…not exciting.”
Rory’s eyes darken. “Not exciting how?”
“He doesn’t make me—” I cut myself off, but it’s too late.
“Doesn’t make you what, Tabitha?” Rory’s voice drops lower, rougher. His hand comes up to brace against a box beside my head, caging me in without touching me. “Doesn’t make your heart race? Doesn’t make you think about him when he’s not around?”
Yes. Exactly that. But I can’t say it because we’re supposed to be keeping this simple. Round two and done. No complications.
“The box,” I manage, pointing past his shoulder with a shaking hand. “I think that’s it. The one markedChristmas - Fragile.”
For a second, I think he might push it. Might make me answer. But then, he pulls back, his cocky half-smile sliding into place like armor.
“Right. The box.” He turns and pulls it down carefully, testing its weight. “It’s heavy.”
“Aunt Mae does nothing halfway.” I’m grateful for something to focus on besides the way my body’s still attuned to his proximity. “There’s tissue paper, bubble wrap, individual boxes for each piece…”
“Like someone who puts down roots.” He’s looking at the box, but I get the feeling he’s talking about something else entirely. “Someone who builds a life instead of just passing through.”
The observation lands heavier than it should. “Is that what you think you do? Just pass through?”
“Isn’t that exactly what I do?” He shifts the box to one hip. “Fifteen years of hotels and airports and cities that blur together. Sophie’s the only person besides Hays who even notices when I’m gone.”
There’s something raw in his voice that makes my chest ache.
“I noticed.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and his eyes snap to mine.
