Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(34)

Even as the thought enters her head, she hears footsteps shuffling in the dry leaves behind her.

Running footsteps.

Bearing down on her.

Another ghost?

No.

“Jacy!” Talk about a welcome sight.

“Calla!”

He stops running, asks breathlessly, “What are you doing out here?”

“Going over to the school.”

She doesn’t bother to ask him what he’s doing; it’s obvious from his shorts, running shoes, sweat band, and Lily Dale Track T-shirt.

“You must be freezing,” she says, and realizes he’s wiping sweat from his face. Duh. He’s working out. Of course he’s not freezing.

“No, but you look like you are.”

The wind kicks up, and she shivers—not so much from the cold, though.

It’s more . . .

Well, out here alone in the dark with him—it’s not like it should be the least bit romantic under the circumstances, and she’s sure it isn’t, for him, but . . .

Stop that.You’ve got to get over him. He’s obviously not interested. He barely even speaks to you.

“So what’s going on at school tonight?”

“Soccer match.”

He nods. “Going to see Blue play?”

“Yeah.” She wants to ask him when his next track meet is and tell him she’ll be there, too, but that seems more than a little ridiculous. Better to keep her mouth shut as much as possible, especially after the way she stuck her foot in it last week.

But the awkward silence that falls between them is almost worse.

She has to say something. Anything.

“Hey, you haven’t had any more dreams about me, have you?”

Anything but that.

“I mean . . . not those kinds of dreams,” she blurts, which definitely sounds even worse.

“I mean . . . you know . . . visions,” she amends, and is glad it’s so dark. She has no desire to see the look on Jacy’s face, and it’s a good thing he can’t see hers, because her cheeks are flaming hot.

Why does she always say the wrong thing around Jacy?

Come on.You know why.

It’s because she’s so physically aware of him—especially now, alone together in the dark, all that lean muscle and masculine sweat—that she can’t even think straight.

At last, Jacy speaks. “I’ve had a few.”

A few . . . a few . . . a few . . .

What is he talking about?

“A few . . . ?”

“Visions. About you.”

“Oh!” You idiot. You just asked him about that. “Well, can you tell me what they—?”

She breaks off with a startled cry and clutches Jacy’s arm as a rush of noise and flashing light swoops toward them out of nowhere.

“It’s okay, it’s just an ambulance.” He pulls her closer to him, away from the edge of the road as the rescue vehicle, sirens screaming, barrels past and disappears around the bend.

“Was it real?” she asks.

“Real? What do you mean?”

“Nothing, I thought . . .” Calla forces a nervous laugh. “I don’t know what I thought. Sorry. I’ve been pretty much a nervous wreck lately.”

She starts to let go of his arm, but his other hand comes down on top of hers. “Hey . . . are you all right?”

“Not really.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly.

“What isn’t?” Her heart is pounding . . . but no longer in fear.

Something’s happening between them. Something that started with the electrical current the moment they met; something that just moments ago seemed impossible, but now feels . . . inevitable.

“I’ll help you,” he tells her. “I know you feel alone . . . but you’re not.”

The breeze stirs and her bangs fall across her eyes. Before she can brush them away, he reaches out and gently pushes the strands back. His fingers are warm against her forehead, and they linger, so that he’s cupping her face, almost as though . . .

He’s going to kiss me.

There’s no time for her to grasp the idea; no time to stop it from happening.

Jacy leans in and their lips meet, and the autumn chill gives way to the Fourth of July with an explosive shower of sparks.

“That was a long time coming,” he says when he pulls away from her.

“It was?” she can’t help asking, shocked to discover that he felt that way, too—and glad he made no apology, though that, she suspects, wouldn’t be his style.

“You don’t think so?”

“You know what I think.” She offers him a taut smile. “I bared my soul to you the other day, remember?”

“I remember.”

“You don’t know how much I wished I hadn’t said anything.”

“You don’t know how glad I am that you did.” At last, he removes his hand from her face. She’s disappointed, until she feels him grasping for her hand.

“But . . . you’ve barely talked to me since,” she points out, lacing her fingers with his, scarcely able to believe this is really happening. Did Jacy Bly really just kiss her? Are they really holding hands in the moonlight?

“I told you . . . it’s complicated.”