“Thank you,” I finally managed to say. I was about to stand, when he sat down beside me, the scent of his cologne enough to make me nearly moan.
He just smelled so damn good.
We sat there for a moment in silence, and I felt awkward as hell. It wasn’t because of the quiet that surrounded us though. I was on edge because of my own nerves, and because of the fact that I was in love with this man, yet he didn’t know—and probably never would.
He was so close I could touch him if I wanted to. How many times had I envisioned doing just that? Too many. God, so many.
I looked around the picnic area, seeing everyone congregating after finishing eating, their smiles and laughter seeming to be drowned out by the rush of blood in my ears and the pounding of my heart against my ribs. The wind picked up, tangling the strands around my face, whipping them against my cheek. I could smell a concentrated whiff of Braxton’s cologne and found my hands curled around the picnic bench I sat on before I realized I gripped it.
As if it would steady me, ground me.
I felt so on display right now, figured everyone was staring at us, knowing—seeing—how much I cared for him, because I was being awkward as hell, but no one paid us any mind.
“The highlight of coming here is to hear you play, Amelia.”
I snapped my head in his direction, feeling my eyes widen, knowing I had shock written across my face. “W-What? Really?” My face was on fire, and he sat next to me, looking cool as a cucumber.
“Yeah, honestly.” He started rubbing his hands up and down his tan Dockers, and I wondered if he was nervous. Surely, he couldn’t be though. He didn’t seem like he was, or that he’d be the type to be awkward… unlike me. “You’re like…” He paused, cleared his throat, and still ran his hands up and down his thighs before curling his big fingers over his knees, as if trying to force himself to calm down. “It’s the reason I show up. To listen to you.”
My heart stopped. Hell, it felt like it did, that muscle stilling in my chest as his words sunk in.
We looked at each other then, for so long. I felt so attuned to him that no one else mattered. Nothing else did.
“Braxton, can we get your opinion on something over here?”
I blinked past the haze that had settled over me and turned my focus from Braxton to the group of men—who I knew were fellow firefighters—and watched as they waved him over. When I looked at him, I saw Braxton still watched me, not even caring that he was being addressed.
I licked my lips and lifted my hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear that had been annoyingly slapping against my cheek from the wind. “I think you’re being summoned,” I teased, smiling, but his focus was so intent that my smile faltered, and I exhaled slowly.
“Braxton?” the guy called out again.
“If you pretend they aren't there, so will I,” he said low, his voice deep and moving over me.
I didn't know what to say to that, and didn't insert my foot in my mouth, but I was unable to look away. “It might be important,” came out of my mouth, even though I told myself to say nothing.
He exhaled, closed his eyes briefly, and looked at the guys. I saw a muscle tic in his jaw before he looked at me once more. “I’m sorry. I’ll be back.” He didn’t move for a suspended moment, but then he did finally stand and make his way over.
I felt this weight leave and breathed out slowly. God, he had such an effect on me.
“Amelia,” my father called, and I straightened my shoulders and looked over at where he stood. I felt guilty for some reason, like he’d caught me doing something wrong. He waved me over, and I looked to where Braxton was, his back to me as he started speaking with the men, their conversation seeming deep.
I stood and reluctantly went to my father, knowing I’d get swallowed by the crowd, knowing I should have taken that moment to talk with Braxton instead of just staring. And staring. And staring.
But how was a girl supposed to be immune to a man who looked like that?
How was a woman supposed to be immune to the man she was in love with?
4
Amelia
“Come on, it’ll be fun.”
I looked down at the brochure my best friend, Keely, handed over. I was already shaking my head. “I’ll get my ass kicked for sure.” I gave her the brochure back, and she rolled her eyes.
“They are self-defense classes, not cage fighting matches.”
I laughed and curled my legs under me as I sat on my couch. She’d come over an hour before with a stack of interior design magazines in her arms. She decided to redo her entire living room and kitchen, and apparently wanted my opinion, even though she described my place as “retro-grandma chic,” whatever that meant.