Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
“Your eyes are beautiful,” I husk.
More blushing, and I remember. I had to touch her. There was no other option, and I know that’s a road I can’t travel, but I did it anyway. With a quick swipe of my thumb across the apple of her cheek, I drop my hand and step out of her way. She scurries around me to the passenger side, sliding in and quietly shutting the door. It’s not until we’re on the road that I bring up my completely inappropriate moment.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable.”
Silence strings between us, causing a heaviness to settle on my chest.
“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” she answers.
Her voice is so low, I almost didn’t hear her. Glancing over, I find her watching me, and she offers me a shy smile.
“Thank you for the compliment. My eyes, I mean,” she says.
I nod and turn my attention back to the road. The hum of the engine fills the air. It’s steady, a mechanical rhythm that fills the space between us. It’s not uncomfortable, but present, as is the silence that flows between us.
It lingers like a question neither of us has yet decided to ask. I can feel her beside me, the subtle shift when she crosses her legs, the faint scent of her perfume mixing with the smell of baby lotion. The feel of her soft skin against my palm.
I clear my throat, my fingers tightening slightly on the steering wheel before I force them to relax. My pulse ticks just a little faster than the rhythm of the engine. I have to stop this. She’s my daughter’s best friend. I’m almost two decades older than she is. She’s young, smart, and beautiful—something I’ve noticed more and more with each interaction. She doesn’t need this middle-aged man barging into her life, making it more complicated.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Would you ladies like to have dinner with me?”
The words feel simple once they’re out, almost casual, but they hang in the air with more weight than I intended. I don’t look at her. I keep my eyes trained on the road and my hands locked tightly around the steering wheel. It’s obvious that they have a mind of their own.
It’s just dinner, I want to say. But it doesn’t feel like “just dinner.” It feels like a door cracked open, like a line drawn that could be stepped across. A line that should never be crossed. I can take them to dinner. There’s no harm in that. I just need to keep my damn hands to myself and my thoughts locked down. I don’t know what’s going on with me, but I need to stop.
“I’d like that,” she finally answers, and I release a heavy exhale.
“What sounds good to you?”
“We can just hit a drive-thru or something.”
“How about Isabella’s?” I suggest. It’s a little Italian place that has the best fettuccini alfredo I’ve ever eaten.
I wait for her to shut me down, but I’m surprised when she says, “I love their breadsticks.”
“The best, right?” I ask, nodding. “What about Mia?”
“I don’t know that she’s ever had their breadsticks, but she pretty much eats everything I offer her.”
“Do we need to stop somewhere else to grab her something to take with us to Isabella’s?”
“That’s sweet of you to offer, but no. She’ll be just fine eating what we eat, and I have a bottle for her. I always pack extras for day care, because you know, your car might break down out of nowhere.” She laughs softly. “Speaking of my car, please let me pay for the repairs.”
“You are repaying me with your company for dinner tonight.” I don’t tell her that I also had her brakes repaired and four new tires put on. I doubt she’ll notice, but if she does, I’ll figure it out. Thankfully, the keys are in a key-coded lockbox, so the mechanic won’t be there to go over everything he’s done.
“Will.”
“Mandy.”
A few heartbeats pass when she says, “No one has ever called me Mandy before.”
“Do you hate it?”
“No. It’s just always been Amanda or Manda, never Mandy.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No. It’s— No, I don’t want you to stop.”
“What were you going to say?”
“It’s nothing.” She wrings her hands in her lap nervously.
Keeping my eyes on the road, I reach over and place my hand over hers. “You can tell me anything, Mandy,” I say, my tone soft, letting her know I’m sincere.
“It’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not.” I give her hands a gentle squeeze.
“I was going to say it’s our thing. Your thing, and I don’t hate it. Not at all.”
My thing.
Our thing.
That shouldn’t make my heart race or my palms sweat, but here we are. With another soft squeeze, I release her hands and wipe one, then the other, on my pants before gripping the wheel as if my life depends on it.