What? “Wow, that’s . . . that’s the nicest thing I’ve heard in a long time . . . and a lot of responsibility.”
“Yeah, but they’re pretty great, so it sounds more impressive than it is.” He’s almost lounging in the seat beside me with a big hand wrapped around the steering wheel.
“I’m having a hard time imagining you with three little kids.”
He laughs. “Sometimes, I have the same problem. But I didn’t have a ton of stability while I was growing up, so I at least try to give them that.”
Holy shit. That jolt cruising through my system may have been caused by my ovaries exploding.
“Anyway,” he goes on, “they’re the reason that I’m so thankful to you. Having CPS sniffing around because their primary caregiver got arrested is not something I even want to think about.”
I mull that over for a minute. “Can I ask why you’re their primary caregiver?”
We’re stopped at a red light and he shifts his gaze from the traffic to consider me.
“Too nosy?” I ask sheepishly when he remains quiet. “It’s one of my worst qualities. That and my inability to pay the rent on time. Unless of course you ask my sister. She’ll tell you that my worst quality is my lack of self-preservation. According to her, I’m way too trusting. But at least I don’t constantly try to accommodate everyone, she’s a habitual people pleaser.”
As I take a much needed breath, he interjects with, “Hey, El? Does your sister also think you’re too chatty?”
My mouth opens, then closes, suddenly unsure of myself. I bet he’d run for the hills if he knew that only people whose opinions are important to me turn me into a nervous chatterbox. I finally go with a harrumphing sound. “Maybe. But chatty is clearly not a negative. Chatty people are delightful.”
He tries, and fails, to repress a laugh. “Delightful is exactly the word I’d use, Elsabeth. You took it right out of my mouth.” He pulls into a parking space at Chipotle. “So do delightful types get mild, medium, or hot salsa in their burritos?”
His playfulness catches me off guard, but I recover quickly. “Burrito?” I toss back dryly like he’s an amateur. “You get way more food when you order it as a bowl . . . with mild, medium, and hot salsa.”
He looks impressed as we get out.
On a bit of high with all the teasing, I like it way too much when he holds the door of the restaurant open for me. As I scoot past him, his scent knocks me for a bit of a loop too; it’s deliciously all man, with undertones of soap and deodorant. I absently wonder what he’d do if I leaned in and made myself at home in the crook of his neck. He’s the perfect height for it.
Actually, as we continue with our easy banter while we wait in line, I know that he’s more than simply the perfect height. He’s just plain perfect, every hard inch of him. Since I’m only allowed to like him as a friend, I manage to keep the ogling of his lean frame and broad shoulders to a minimum, barely noticing how his biceps faintly strain and flex when he moves. And in no way do I acknowledge the urge to lift the hem of his T-shirt to get a better idea of the ab situation he’s got going on. Although, I’m not sure if it’s better or worse to leave the situation completely to the mercy of my wild imagination.
Once we’ve got our food, we snag two stools at the window and dig in. After a few bites, I can’t help but moan. “I love this stuff.”
He finishes chewing his mouthful and then grins at me. “So does my daughter.”
It takes a second for me to make the connection to the Hawaiian pizza. “She and I are kindred spirits, then,” I tell him with a smile that quickly becomes a frown. “What are you doing?” Before every bite, he’s pouring bottled hot sauce directly onto his burrito. At the rate he’s going, he’ll have used it all by the time he’s done.
“What?” he asks innocently. “I like it spicy.”
“You’re going to burn a hole in your esophagus.”
He shrugs and then pours some more while I laugh to myself.
When we’re done, he surprises me by turning my stool to face him so his knees bracket my own. “I need you to tell me why you didn’t hand me over to the cops. It’s been driving me crazy.”
Since the truth would needlessly complicate our newfound friendship, I lie. “I don’t know.” He’s about to object to my answer so I forestall him with a half-truth. “Okay, I do know. It was your expression. You just seemed so . . . defeated, like the world has never given you a break.”
He rubs the slight stubble on his jaw. “You could have got in a lot of trouble.”
“I know. But it wasn’t really a conscious decision. It all happened so fast.”
“Yeah, it did,” he concedes.
“Are you going to tell me why you were running in the first place?”
“I told you. Wrong place at the wrong time.”
I give him a skeptical look that says really?
“I’m serious. Fridays are my one night of the week to go out with my friends, and some of them aren’t exactly the squeaky-clean types.”
He seems to be waiting for some kind of acknowledgment of his innocence, so I nod. “Today is Friday, does that mean you’re going to be in the wrong place at the wrong time again later tonight?”
My heart skips a beat when he unleashes a rueful smile on me. “Nah, I’m officially on hiatus. At least for a little while. Anyway, the guy I was telling you about, Jorgie? I see him at work now, so by the end of the day, I’ve had enough of him.”
“The guy you got a job for isn’t squeaky clean? I’m not sure that was wise.”
He groans. “Tell me about it.”
Something through the window catches his eye, and he lifts his chin at it. “You know that guy, El?”
The pleasure of hearing the shortened version of my name on his lips is obliterated by the sight of Cody staring at me through the glass. “Oh, come on,” I mutter under my breath.
“El?” There’s concern in his tone.
“Yeah, I know him.” Ugh, and he’s coming inside now. “He’s my ex-boyfriend’s best friend.”
I’m still facing Scott with my thighs between his knees. It appears more intimate than it is and I appreciate that Scott doesn’t pull away from me, letting Cody draw his own conclusions.
“Piper,” Cody intones.
“Cody.” He’s still got that preposterous, wispy goatee.
“How you been?”
“Fine.” Keeping my attention glued to my nails, I refuse to ask the reciprocal question and engage with him. Under normal circumstances, I would dread this type of run-in, but with Scott here, I’m confident I can hold strong.
“Candy Cane misses you,” he says, upending my attempt to remain indifferent. Shit. I feel tears begin to form.
“I miss her too,” I admit softly.
A slight shift in his stance has me lifting my gaze to find him zeroed in on Scott. “So when you coming back?” He makes it sound like it’s Scott’s fault I’m not back with them already. That puts an end to the rising emotion.
I straighten my spine. “I’m not.”