Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(37)

Now I laughed. “Shelby, of course you’re flawed. We’re all flawed. Let me be clear, I have a bigger issue with you asking forty million questions to dissect something than I do with you having ankylosing spondylitis.”

“You looked it up?” Surprised, she picked up her coffee and sipped.

“I did. You got a problem with that?” I teased.

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided,” she said primly.

“Well, you think on it.”

Clarabell returned, a steaming plate in each hand. “Enjoy, y’all.”

Shelby stared down at her plate like it was fresh roadkill.

“Back to your diet and nutrition,” I said, sliding the napkin-wrapped silverware in her direction. “We’re going to find healthy foods that you’ll like to eat. You don’t have to eat anything you hate.”

“Good. Because I think I’m going to hate this.” She poked at the omelet with her fork.

I pulled the containers out of the carrier on the table. “Let’s cut it into thirds. One with just salt and pepper. One with ketchup. And one with hot sauce,” I suggested.

“Okay,” she said miserably.

She was unbelievably cute. Her freckles were rioting after yesterday’s sun. She’d scooped her hair back in one of those knots women seemed to favor. Her bangs framed her glasses and those mournful, hazel eyes.

I had the urge to order her a short stack of pancakes with a gallon of syrup just to see her smile.

“What’s this?” she asked, spearing a piece of melon.

“It’s what they make sangria out of.”

“Let’s get this over with,” she muttered.





*



She liked grapes, pineapple, and honeydew. And she spit out the cantaloupe in her napkin. As for the omelet, Shelby surprised herself and didn’t hate it spiced up with hot sauce.

“This isn’t awful,” she mused, taking another forkful.

“I’m sure the cook will take that as a compliment,” I said wryly.

“Coming from me, it’s high praise for anything other than chicken nuggets and applesauce.”

I winced. “You eat like a picky toddler.”

“Believe me, I know it. It’s embarrassing when Mom whips up some fabulous chicken parm from scratch for the family, and there I am with my nuggets and ranch dressing,” she said, cutting another bite of eggs.

She put down her fork and pulled her phone out to snap a picture of her plate. “Speaking of Mom, I’m going to send her proof that my palate is expanding.”

Her thumbs flew across the screen, and I tried to focus on my breakfast. Now that I’d kissed her, well, it was hard to not think about doing it again. And again.

She’d responded to me like I was waking her up from a long sleep. Like I was something special. And I really liked that. But was I ready?

“Okay,” she said, dropping her phone back on the table. “Let’s cover the following topics. One, do you still want to pursue a physical relationship with me? And two, how do you feel about your mom surprising you, and why aren’t you out to breakfast with her?”

“Mom thing first,” I decided. “I’m thrilled she’s here. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her until I saw her last night. As for why I’m having breakfast with you, Mom’s nursing a hangover. I’m giving her a grand tour of the town this afternoon when her eyes are less bloodshot and she’s done sweating Fireball.”

Shelby nodded approvingly and ate another grape. “Go on.”

“The physical relationship thing. I’m obviously attracted to you. You know that, don’t you?”

She cocked her head, frowning. “I sense a ‘but’ approaching.”

“But I don’t know if I’m ready to pursue anything. I’ve never been a fling kind of guy,” I confessed. I liked long-term relationships. Liked building a history with a woman. “However, I don’t know what the future holds. I wasn’t kidding about missing my mom. We’re close. And I don’t know if I really want to set up a life on the opposite side of the country from her.”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t have room in my schedule for an actual relationship. This dissertation is basically haunting every waking moment, and then there’s the triathlon training and dealing with this diagnosis thing. And I don’t know where I’m going to be by the end of summer. Hopefully juggling well-paying job offers.”

“Okay. Where does that leave us?” I asked.

“I think I would be doing a disservice to myself and nerd girls everywhere if I didn’t try to enjoy a summer fling with my incredibly attractive roommate. Every woman needs a man she can remember fondly forever. I want you to be that for me.”

I nodded slowly. “A physical relationship with no strings or expectations? And you’ll look back on this summer when you’re eighty-five and wonder whatever happened to that nice trainer you lived with?”

“Exactly!” she said, beaming at me.

I hesitated, and she sensed it. “I appreciate you being so open about it,” I began.

“But?” she pressed.

I hated myself for it. “I just don’t know if I’m ready yet.”