A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(53)

Fuck.

I hit COMPOSE on my phone and find Abby in my contacts list.

Taking a deep breath, I punch out a text, grateful that I can’t stutter or sound like a f*cking idiot via text. Right?

Me: Abby, it’s Caleb. How’s it going?

A few minutes go by that have me pacing the hardwood floors the length of my bedroom, and I wonder briefly if they can hear my nervous footsteps down in the kitchen.

Probably.

Abby: It’s good! How about you?

Exclamations are a good sign, yeah? I wipe my sweaty palms on the leg of my jeans before hitting REPLY.

Me: Good.

I pause, wanting to type, Um. Shit. This is harder than I thought it would be.

Me: Good.

Dammit. I just texted her ‘Good’ twice.

Me: Listen. My pants are in town, and I was wondering… they were wondering if

Accidentally hitting SEND before finishing the sentence, I groan after realizing it autocorrected parents to pants.

I lied. Shit, you actually can sound like a douchebag moron via text. I just proved it.

Me: My PARENTS are in town, and we were wondering if you wanted to join us for an early dinner. If you’re not busy.

Me: I totally get it if you have plans. Or think it’s weird.

Shit, I scold myself, stop texting her. Jesus, Caleb, get grip.

After a few minutes go by without any kind of response, I resume my pacing, stopping to tap my fingers on the ledge of my windowsill like a fidgety crack whore.

My phone pings and my heartbeat stills.

Abby: What time?

What time? Was that a yes? Holy crap. What. Time.

Me: I can walk over and get you in a half hour? Is that enough time for you to get ready?

Me: My parents just kind of showed up and my Dad is hungry. Sorry.

Abby: No, that’s plenty of time. I went to church this morning, so all I need to do is change back out of these yoga pants. lol ;)

Me: Great. I’ll see you in a half hour then.

Abby: It’s a date.





Abby

It’s a date? It’s a date?

Ugh, why did I put that! That definitely deserves a face palm.

Groaning, I cover my eyes when my phone pings a few seconds later and peek at the screen through my fingers.

Caleb: It’s a date.

Yes!

Shrieking, I throw my phone down onto the bed like it’s just caught on fire and dance around the room, arms above my head, hair sweeping wildly around my shoulders. I feel like the girl version of Kevin Bacon in the original Footloose—you know the part where he’s dancing in the old grain mill? Yeah, that’s me right now, but in a good way, not in the pissed-off, this stupid town has outlawed music and dancing way, but in a holy crappers I’m meeting his parents way.

I pop on Spotify and dance around to the beat of “Good Girls” by Five Seconds of Summer before stopping to look at myself in the mirror, taking inventory of my reflection, breathing heavily.

Flushed cheeks, animated blue eyes. My long dark hair is still wavy from having been curled early this morning, but I’m wearing black yoga pants, and those simply won’t do.

I glance at my phone: seventeen more minutes to get ready before Caleb comes to pick me up.

Shoot.

Opening my closet, I peer inside, grabbing out a pair of worn boot-cut jeans and tossing them on my bed. I then thumb through my shirts, biting down on my bottom lip with indecision, but finally pull out a thin gray cable-knit sweater.

Gray heeled Frye boots complete the simple look, and just as I give my hair one last fluff and add some gloss to my lips, the rusty old doorbell croaks out a sickly ding-dong.

Grateful that both my roommates are out of the house, I smooth my hands down the front of my jeans, grab my phone off the bed, my purse from the hook beside my closet, and move through the living room to swing open the front door.

Caleb shuffles his feet on the front stoop, shoulders slouched, looking adorably embarrassed. “Hi.” He shoves his hands into the pocket of his jeans, but today, he’s missing the element of his hooded sweatshirt.

In its place is a flattering blue, white, and green button-down flannel, and I have to admit, it not only does his body good, but it’s also doing my hormones good… but don’t get me started on that.

Stepping out onto the porch, I lock the door behind me and smile up at him.

He drags his teeth over his bottom lip. “You look… cute.”

I feel the blush creeping up my neck at his halted compliment and cast my eyes downward, pulling back a few strands of hair and tucking them behind my ear timidly. “Thanks.” Oh jeez. “Should we, um…”

“Yeah, we should go. My mom’s kind of flipping out. In a good way.” He quickly reassures me, his low snicker filling me with warm fuzzies.

He pulls his hands out of his pockets as we walk. His loose left hand brushes my hip, and then, after a few paces, grasps for my palm.

I love the fact that he wants to hold hands, and it somehow seems intimate.

I love it. Love it.

I love the feel of his large hand clutching mine, holding it tight, the rough, hard-earned callouses a stark contrast to my smooth, self-manicured palms.

And now that I’m being honest with myself, I’ll be honest with you; I don’t just love his hands.

I secretly think I love him.

All of him.