One Funeral (No Weddings #2)(12)

“Sure.” I stood, dumping tissues in a scattered pattern onto the floor.

When I squatted to scoop them up, she hurried over, her sensible shoes stepping into my line of sight on the natural fiber rug. She knelt next to me. “Don’t worry about the mess. I’ve got it.”

Yet together, we picked up my mess and dealt with it.

“So what should I be doing between now and next week?”

She smiled, then returned to her desk where she jotted another note onto her pad. “I was just about to get to your assignment. I suggest forcing yourself into a situation you’re slightly uncomfortable with to see what happens. Since you’re naturally shy and feel awkward making friends, find a way to make new friends. Through your work or other social activities, see if you can turn an acquaintance into a friend.”

“And what about Cade? Do you think he might benefit from coming to therapy?”

On her way to reaching for her doorknob, she paused. “I think it’s a great idea for him to come to therapy if he has issues similar to yours. But I’d recommend separate appointments for now. We can delve further into your issues in comfortable privacy until it makes sense to do something different.”

I swallowed hard, needing to ask the main question on my mind. “Should he and I wait before taking our relationship any further?”

“I can’t tell you what you and Cade should do, Hannah. Going slow is certainly sound advice, but let your own progress and comfort level be your guide. If you try something but have a setback along the way, then take a moment, assess what happened, and regroup.”

She smiled, opening her door. “But from the few things you’ve told me, Cade already seems like a wise and patient man.”

I exhaled a deep breath, hoping his patience would hold out for however long it took.



I walked into Cade’s house that night, both arms holding bags of groceries. He rushed up and took them from me.

“How’d therapy go?”

“It was good. We talked not only about my ex, but we also dug into childhood stuff too. Seems like the therapy is headed in a good direction.” I hoped.

“What did you think about Abigail?”

Nodding, I raised my brows. “She’s cool. Very nice. Intelligent. Perceptive. As if she knows what I want to say, or need to talk about, and teases it out of me. No pressure, like she’s a friend.”

He flipped on the faucet and started rinsing the vegetables. “That’s great. I hope it helps.”

“Me too. Oh, and you have an appointment. Tomorrow at 3:30 p.m.”

He coughed, then glanced over his shoulder with a wounded expression. “Why am I going to therapy?”

“Because if I have to go, you have to go. I’m making it a condition of our non-dating.” I paused as I unwrapped the chicken legs and leaned my hip into the counter, gauging his reaction.

Although he concentrated on removing dirt from the parsnips, his expression softened. “I could do that. Don’t like that time, though; cuts into my time at Sweet Dreams before my night class.”

I turned back to the meat. “I’m sure you’ll manage an hour a week away from me.”

“Nope. Not compromising there. We’ll make up the hour somewhere else.”

I glanced back, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, Casanova. You keep increasing our time together in small increments.”

He pointed the tip of a parsnip at me. “First of all, I am no longer Casanova. Talented? Yes. Gallivanting between lovers? A thing of my past. Secondly, it’s all part of the non-dating.”

I burst out laughing. “Gallivanting?”

He held a bouquet of parsnips and carrots between us. “I was only speaking Casanovian.”

With great effort, I suppressed stomach-clenching laughter, trying to stay on point. “And how’s that? Is ‘non-dating’ actually code for ‘attached at the hip’? Thought the idea was to hang out together without pressure.”

“It is. But for things to progress from non-dating to non-sex, we have to increase the rate of exposure until vibration occurs.”

I dropped the chicken into the flour, and a cloud of white puffed up into the air. Speechless, I turned around to find he actually wore a serious expression while dicing root vegetables with well-practiced strokes.

Unable to process everything at once, I blinked, focusing on the first shocker. “Non-sex?” The rest of the scientific mumbo jumbo froze my thoughts, tying my tongue. Vibration?

His reply? A single nod. Nothing more.

Not wanting to have a detailed conversation about non-sex—whatever that was—in the middle of a kitchen where Ben and Mase could burst in at any moment, I kept my lips sealed and returned to my battering.

By the time the breaded chicken began to brown on its second side, Mase arrived, groaning. “You’re killing me, Hannah. When’s dinner?” He put his hands on my hips, pecking my cheek.

A low growl erupted from beside us where Cade whipped potatoes. “Touch her again and you’ll be eating KFC. Through a straw.”

Mase unapologetically punched Cade’s arm. “You don’t get to say we can’t touch her. She’s like our sister. I can hug and kiss my sister.” For effect, Mase wrapped his arms around my midsection and squeezed.