Page 115 of Really Truly Yours

“That doesn’t explain why you haven’t told your family.”

Noticed that, did she? I drop into the right lane, which somehow makes talking seem easier. “Okay, here’s the thing. My idea of meeting Donny, had I been the one to take that step, would have been to talk on the phone a time or two. Maybe share a Christmas card or something, and I imagine that’s what I set my parents up to expect, but now…”

“Now he’s a real factor in your life.”

I squeeze her fingers. “Exactly. I’d never want to hurt them.”

“I see your thinking, but you know, just because you never thought about more with Donny doesn’t mean they didn’t. Parents can be insightful like that.” She sighs. “Some of them, anyway.”

I have to lean to catch the mumbled last part. I think I got it.

Talk about insightful. In my gut, I know she’s correct. My involvement with Donny won’t make a heartbeat of difference to Mom and Dad. We’ve twenty-plus years of established love and relationship shoring us up.

I move from a simple clasp to locking our hands in a tangled knot. Sydnee is awesome.

Using the control on the wheel, I tap up the volume on the light jazz music drifting through the speakers. I hope I’m not the only one feeling the romance level ascend with it.

A few minutes later, I realize my hand is in motion. With her palm settled onto the armrest, my finger traces her thumb, her index finger, like I’m drawing out one of those turkey handprints schools everywhere will be sending home with students in a matter of weeks. Around the edges. Up the peaks. Down the valleys. Slow and easy on her satiny skin…

She tucks her hand into her lap.

I swallow hard. Yeah, there was something disproportionately intimate in that.

The closer we draw to her town, the nearer the light show on the horizon flashes. As I pull into Sydnee’s driveway, a fat raindrop splatters onto the windshield.

I’ve barely applied the brake when she’s gathering her things and, worse, all but lunging for the door.

The smile on her lips doesn’t distract me sufficiently to not notice the absence of it in her eyes. “Thank you, Gray. I had a nice time. Goodnight.”

The interior brightens with the opening of her door.

I shove the car into park. “Sydnee.”

She throws her feet onto the gravel.

Is she for real? I cut the engine and, sorry-not-sorry, follow her up the mashed grass that doubles as a sidewalk. A powerful gust blows me onto the porch where she fumbles with the lock. The air lights up, spotlighting more raindrops.

I touch her elbow. “Let me get that.”

She yanks from my touch, rumbling like the thunder. “I can open my own door, Grayson Smith!”

Ooo. Full name.

When she gets the door scraped open, I move fast. By the time she tries to push it closed, my clodhoppers are on her flattened carpet. Her gorgeous blue eyes draw together.

Although I’ve been on the receiving end of many of her frowns and scowls over the last weeks, I’m still not a fan. I close the warped door and lean against it. “Did I do something?”

Like, maybe make her feel something? Just a guess.

She backward steps to the end of the kitchen counter. Afraid isn’t the right word, thank heavens, at least not in the most literal sense. This woman has walls, walls that squeeze me, unfairly I think, into a cramped box, probably slapping on a label someone else earned.

“Can I ask you a question, Syd?”

She folds her arms, nose poking the air. “Can you go ask it from the porch where you were less uninvited?”

Sweet Sydnee, the one I recently dined and laughed with, has gone on hiatus.

I throw my head back. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”

---