When in Rome(74)

My white-knuckled fists are leaning on the counter, bracketing the answering machine I’ve never wanted to throw out the window as much as I do now. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve never felt like a jealous asshole before, but hearing that Amelia and James have already spent the entire day together on his farm and are now throwing a dinner party like some sort of white-picket-fence couple has me contemplating murder for my best friend. It’s not fair that James gets to spend endless time with her, and now she and I have these new rules.

Damn rules.

I sigh and scrape my hands over my face hoping to clear my head of this pounding jealousy. It doesn’t subside even a bit.

Instead, my mind lingers back to that kiss yesterday that I felt all the way in my soul. She was so right in my arms—sweet and soft and holding on to me like she needed me. Of course, it was a mistake. A sexy, hot, unforgettable mistake. But really what else could it be?

Why did it have to be the best kiss of my whole damn life and all I could think about at work today? Three times I realized I had zoned out while rolling out the dough for a piecrust. By the time I came back to reality in the pie shop instead of treading water with Amelia back in the lake, the butter in my dough had melted and I had to start over. Everyone noticed, too. Harriet came in for a pie while Mabel was also in the shop and all hell broke loose. I’d mixed up who got which pie and the next thing I knew, Harriet was giving me the third degree.

“See? It’s that woman that’s making him all scrambled in the brain!” Harriet had said it like an accusation.

“Well, of course she is. The boy is smitten, anyone can tell. And what’s wrong with that? He deserves happiness,” said Mabel. Everyone is so used to talking around me. Rarely do they ever need me to participate, which is just fine by me.

Harriet had scowled. “At what cost? I’ll tell you what! His soul. That woman is sleeping in his house and tempting him in all sorts of ways.”

Mabel scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Leave his soul alone, Harriet, and mind your own beeswax. I think you could stand to be tempted a little…maybe it’d make you less bitter all the time.”

But Harriet wasn’t wrong—about the brain scrambling at least. My soul is still up for debate. And the problem is, I can’t afford to have my brain scrambled right now. I need every lick of sense I can get to help me withstand falling in love with Amelia Rose. Except…no. I think I already have.



* * *



—

I’m standing outside of James’s front door at 5:58. That’s a whole two minutes early. And because I can’t have Amelia thinking I was so eager to see her after our first full day apart, and that I hustled through a shower and practically sprinted across the long front yards to make sure I got here at six, I stand out here quietly and wait until my watch says exactly six o’clock to knock.

But as soon as I raise my hand, the door flies open. I’m immediately greeted with Amelia’s pretty smile. Well, first her face is surprised, and then she smiles, and then she wipes it off again like maybe she wasn’t supposed to smile. She’s a slot machine for possible emotions.

“Hi! Sorry. I didn’t know you were out here. I was actually just about to run to your place to grab a sweatshirt.” She means my sweatshirt. I wouldn’t be surprised if that thing turns up missing after she leaves town.

“Oh. Okay…and I was just getting ready to knock. I haven’t been standing out here or anything.” I gesture toward the now-open door in case she might have been tempted to think I’d knock on the house’s siding instead.

She smiles again and I’m lost in it. “Yeah. I figured.”

We stare at each other for a minute and it feels hard to breathe. Hard to think. Hard to do anything but imagine wrapping my arms around her and pulling her into my chest. I’d kiss her hair. Her forehead. Work my way down her temple and her cheek to the corner of her mouth to…

“Did you have a good day?”

“No,” I say quickly before I realize it. And then when she smile-frowns, I say, “I mean, yeah.”

She’s confused now. Rightfully so. We fall back into awkward silence. I’ve never been good at small talk anyway. My brain just won’t do it. Instead I’m dying to say exactly what I’m thinking: You look gorgeous. I like your jean shorts—I haven’t seen these on you before. Your white tank top is cute. Has your manager bugged you today? I don’t want you to go. I’ve been dreaming of kissing you again. I don’t trust myself alone with you. And I want to hear every single detail of your day from start to finish, don’t leave anything out. I know she’d tell me. She’d spill her pretty guts and her eyes would sparkle and light up like they do when she’s happy.

Instead, I don’t say any of this because I’m an addict trying to cut myself off cold turkey.

“What about you? How was your day?”

“Good. It was good.”

“Good.”

We both nod. We’re robots doing a poor imitation of humans. Next I’ll bow and she will curtsy. This is so messed up. One amazing kiss and we don’t know how to interact anymore.

“Okay, well, I’m going to go grab that sweatshirt,” she says cheerily.

“Right.” I step aside so she can pass, but she steps forward in the same direction. We almost collide and she hits the brakes. One quick awkward chuckle and I step aside. For a brief moment when she looks up at me, I see her shoulders relax slightly. Her smile turns self-deprecating but sweet. It’s the moment in the movie when we both lift our human masks and reveal that we’re the same ole robots we’ve always been, trapped inside the role we’ve been forced to play.