Flirting with Forever: A Hot Romantic Comedy(6)

But I lived in the real world and that feeling was just hormones.

“Hey, Dex.” Phil paused his hedge trimming to wave at my neighbor. “How’s it going?”

Dex lifted his hand. “Not bad. You?”

“Can’t complain. Have a good one.”

“You, too.”

So he did have it in him to be friendly. Interesting.

His gaze swung to me and I took the opportunity to smile. Go ahead, grumpy tattooed guy. Ignore my neighborly smile.

He did.

Without the slightest acknowledgment that I existed, he got into his car, backed down the driveway, and left.

Rude.

I sipped my iced tea, feeling irritable. What was his problem? I couldn’t decide what bothered me more—that he kept ignoring me or that I cared that he kept ignoring me.

But would it have killed him to wave? Tip his chin? Anything? It wasn’t like he was rude to everyone. He’d just had a perfectly polite interaction with Phil. That was all I was asking for.

A few minutes later, his daughter came out. She glanced up and down the street, as if looking for any sign of her dad, and I wondered if she was about to sneak away. Her movements seemed tentative, like she was afraid of getting caught breaking some rule.

But she didn’t leave, nor did a boy who was probably too old for her arrive in a beat-up car to whisk her away somewhere her dad wouldn’t have wanted her to go.

Not that I knew anything about that scenario.

Actually, I very much did. Minus the dad part. Mine would have had to have been around to notice me jumping into a car with a dangerous boy.

The girl slipped earbuds in her ears and looked like she was about to lower herself onto her front step—they could have used a bistro table and chairs, too—but she glanced at me and paused.

I smiled and gave her a little wave. Maybe her dad was a jerk, but that didn’t mean she was.

Her answering smile was tentative—almost shy—which made me love her instantly.

“Hi.” I waved again. “I’m Nora.”

She took out her earbuds. “Um, hi. I’m Riley.”

“Nice to meet you, Riley.”

“You, too.”

“Would you like to join me for some iced tea?” I asked. “I have more inside.”

Another little smile graced her lips. She was adorable.

“Okay.”

I waved her over and invited her to sit. She pocketed her earbuds and sat down while I went inside to refill my iced tea and get her a glass.

I brought our drinks outside and joined her at the table. “I forgot to ask you if you prefer sweetened. This doesn’t have any sugar in it. If I’m going to drink my calories, I prefer there to be alcohol involved.”

Her brows drew together slightly, as if she were the tiniest bit confused. “Unsweetened is fine. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”

“Me neither. Salty is my downfall.”

“Oh my gosh, me too. I put extra salt on my fries and my dad thinks I’m crazy.”

“Look at that, we already have something in common.” I lifted my glass. “To new friends.”

She clinked hers against mine and we both sipped.

“So, Riley. Tell me about you. How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“And what grade are you in?”

“Seventh.”

“How is it? Do you like school?”

She shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess.”

I shook my head slowly. “Seventh grade was not my favorite year.”

“Really? Why?”

“So many reasons. For one thing, it was the year I got boobs and I had absolutely no idea what to do with them. I went to school without a bra one day and the boys started calling me Nora Nipples.”

Riley winced. “That’s mean.”

“Seventh grade boys leave a lot to be desired. I am happy to tell you that at least some of them improve. But don’t hold your breath. It takes at least another decade.”

“That’s okay. I kind of had a crush on this one boy at the beginning of the year but I decided he was too immature.”

“I think that’s smart. You’ll have plenty of time for that later. What are you into?”

She glanced down with a shrug. “I don’t know. Art, I guess.”

“What kind of art? Do you draw?”

“Yeah, and paint.”

“Do you? That’s interesting. Maybe you could show me sometime.”

“You want to see my art?”

“Absolutely. But only when you’re ready. Art can be very personal.”

“Yeah, it is,” she said, a hint of awe in her voice, like she was surprised that I understood. “Are you an artist too?”

“Oh, I wish.” I waved that off. “I don’t have that kind of talent.”

“What do you do? Like, for your job?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Really? A professional one?”

“Yep. I write a weekly column about, well, women’s issues.” I didn’t really want to get into the topic of my latest article with a thirteen-year-old.

“I love writing.”

“Do you? Look at us, finding all sorts of things in common. What do you like to write?”