It was the worst ‘save’ in the history of ‘saves,’ and all Dr. Lowe did was chuckle. It was a deep, pleasant sound that filled the spacious garage. It drew my gaze up to him. He had his hands resting casually on the sides of the door frame, and his expression was faint amusement.
But he blinked it away and straightened. “Preston sent you to get his beer?”
I shrugged, pulled the fridge open, and stared at the nearly empty shelves. At least the cold air coming from the open refrigerator calmed my heated face. “I offered.”
The cardboard creaked when I grabbed the case’s handle and lifted the twenty-four pack off the shelf. I tried to focus on the heft in my hand and not the man in the doorway, since it was the second time this summer he’d caught me.
The second time he’d seen me doing something he shouldn’t have.
Oh my God, don’t think about it.
Lord knew I’d spent enough nights fantasizing about that day, so I plastered on an indifferent expression and lugged the beer toward the door. Every step brought us closer, and yet Dr. Lowe didn’t move. His maple brown eyes sharpened on mine until I pulled to a stop. He was blocking me.
“Are things okay with you two?” he asked, full of concern.
I nearly dropped the case in surprise. Preston seemed oblivious to the divide growing between us. How the heck did his dad see it?
“We’re . . .” I wasn’t sure what to say, or how to say it. “I think it’s school. It got us out of sync.”
Dr. Lowe nodded slowly. Preston had struggled with his new freedom as a college freshman, and he’d found going to class on a regular basis a challenge. His grades hadn’t been good, and it was a sore spot between him and his dad.
I forced myself to brighten. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
His expression didn’t change. He looked at me funny, like he was worried or upset, or as if he didn’t believe me. But he nodded once more and stepped back to let me pass. I was halfway through the kitchen before he spoke.
“Cassidy.” His voice was quiet, yet strong. “I don’t know if I ever said it, but thank you for everything you did with Preston.”
Confusion made me slam on the brakes. “What?”
Dr. Lowe shifted on his feet, visibly uncomfortable. “When he came to Nashville, it was hard on him. You made it easier.” He balled his fists, set them on the kitchen island, and leaned forward, pressing his knuckles into the granite. “You made him a better person, and I’m grateful.”
The cardboard was cold as I clutched the case closer to my body, stunned.
Growing up had been complicated for my boyfriend. Preston’s parents had him young and never married, and he didn’t talk much about why he’d lived with his mother in North Carolina until he was sixteen.
I didn’t know what kind of relationship he’d had with his father before he arrived in Nashville, but it sounded nonexistent. The story I’d pried out was he’d been hanging around with a group of kids his mother was scared of, and like the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, she’d shipped him off to live with his dad, determined to keep him away from their bad influence.
When Preston and I started dating, we both joked it was because I was the first girl who was nice to the new kid in town. My smart, somewhat nerdy friends became his friends, and eventually, his mother’s plan seemed to work.
I squeezed the beer in my arms, not sure how to respond to his father’s gratitude. What was I supposed to say? You’re welcome? “That’s really nice, but I didn’t do anything.”
A faint smile lifted at the corner of Dr. Lowe’s lips and spread wider as he spoke. “Well, I’m thankful either way. Sorry about interrupting whatever that was you were doing a minute ago.”
His light teasing brought on fresh embarrassment, and I pulled my shoulders back. “Hey, I couldn’t help it. I really like Joven.”
“I agree they’re good, but they don’t,” his smile widened, “give me seizures.”
“Ha, ha,” I said in a flat tone. “I’ll have you know I’m normally a great dancer. I didn’t know anyone was around.” I shot him a pointed look.
He lifted his hands in mock surrender, but his smile didn’t fade. “Well, I don’t really have room to talk.” He hooked his thumbs back at himself. “World’s Worst Dancer right here.”
“I don’t know. Your son might have you beat.”
Preston spent most of the school dances hanging out on the side of the dancefloor. Whenever he did dance, it was like he was mimicking those inflatable windsock men outside of used car dealerships—all flailing arms and spastic hips.
As I left Preston’s father and went down the stairs to the basement, I couldn’t shake the feeling he’d given me. A warm tingling in my chest that felt all sorts of wrong, but good too.