Georgia on Her Mind(57)
“I—I’m fat,” I blab.
“Wh-what?” His lips are millimeters from mine.
“I’m fat,” I repeat a little more loudly.
He steps away and gives me the once-over. “No, you’re just right. Better than right.”
“Fourth grade. The haiku. ‘I went out to play. I saw Macy Moore. She’s fat.’ Remember?”
Dylan sits and pulls me down to the bench next to him. “That was cruel of me and I’m sorry.”
I try to respond with a clever quip, but the first syllable is a mere squeak. I clamp my mouth shut.
“Sometimes guys do dumb stuff.” He places his arm around me.
“No problem,” I manage to croak, relishing the sensation of his arm curling around me, cradling me against him.
The lake breeze brushes our faces and in the moment of silence, my mind records every vivid detail and sensation of his kiss.
The SSS will be thrilled.
He lifts his hand so the ends of my hair whisper through his fingers. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time,” he confesses.
I turn to him. “Why’d you wait?”
He shakes his head, spreads his arms along the back of the bench and with a sly grin, gives up his secret. “You were the untouchable Macy Moore.”
“Untouchable?” I repeat. That’s not the word I’d use.
He regards me. “You were larger than life, taking on the world, breaking all the rules.”
“Me? No, you were the one larger than life. Football hero, Most Popular, dean’s list. You had more girls huddling around you than players on the football field.”
He regards me, his emotion reflected in his eyes. “I didn’t see you crowding around.”
Truly, he’s melting my insides.
Wait, Macy. Stop swooning. Think. You’re thirty-three, not thirteen. I jump up, slipping my hands into the pockets of my shorts.
“I’m moving to Chicago,” I say, matter-of-fact.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I see.”
I look toward the tent village. “I’m not with Casper anymore, Dylan. I’m interviewing with another Web software company. It’s a tremendous opportunity for me.”
“Is it what you want?”
“Of course.” I think. Yes, of course. Isn’t it the next yellow brick in the road?
He stands facing me. “Ever think of moving back to Beauty?”
“No, never.” I tremble, hearing myself say no to him. I can’t let a Dylan kiss derail me from landing my dream job. One confession of admiration can’t melt my career goals like butter in the microwave. Or can it?
No, absolutely not. I have too much invested in my career and not enough in Dylan Braun. I have no basket in which to put my eggs.
“Macy…” He pulls me close and I press my cheek against his chest, listening to his heart beat.
“Dylan, hey, Dylan.” Ellen Van Buren is huffing and puffing our way. “We need your photo for the paper.”
He waves to her. “Okay, Ellen, be right there.”
I lift my face toward his, waiting, longing, yet knowing.
“Good luck in Chicago.” He brushes my hair away, then bends to kiss me ever so lightly on the lips.
Monday morning as I haul my stuff down the front stairs and out to my car, Dad meets me on the front porch.
“Let me help you.” He grabs my suitcase and tosses it into my trunk. I drop my purse into the passenger seat.
The morning song of the birds is as fresh as the dew on the trees and it’s another great day. I pop the top on the BMW, figuring I’ll start home with only the Georgia sky over my head. I look forward to the drive, a time to ponder and pray.
“Can I talk to you?” Dad asks when the convertible top is tucked away. “Let’s take a drive over by the lake.”
I stare at him for a nanosecond. He’s up to something. “Whatever it is, the answer is no.”
He chuckles. “I’ll stop and get some coffees. See you at the lake.”
“All right, but I’m dubious.” I kiss Mom goodbye and head for the park and Crystal Lake.
“So, what’s on your mind?” I ask Dad when he arrives. He hands me a coffee from a paper bag.
“I suppose you’re looking forward to the Chicago interview.”
We walk toward the benches under the mossy oak trees, weaving our way through closed tents and locked booths.
“I am.” My insides leap at the thought. Chicago. My kind of town.
“I’d like you to consider something.” Dad pauses to face me.
“All righty.” I prep for some fatherly, businessman advice.
“Join me at Moore Gourmet Sauces.”
“Huh?” I gape at him. What is he saying?
“Join me in the business.” He cups his hands around his coffee.
“Move back to Beauty? Is this what you were talking to Rhine about?” What an unnerving notion. I let my mind picture Dylan for one teeny-tiny second, then shove him back into a dark corner.
“Yes. I mentioned your business skills to Rhine.” He flashes a fatherly grin. “Moving back to Beauty would be part of joining me in the business.”
“After all the years, you think I’d consider moving back home?” I sound incredulous. I am incredulous. I love my father, but he can’t be serious.