The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(60)

Deep breaths.

Deep breaths.

“I don’t suppose you know how to pick a lock?” I ask Levi.

His gaze meets mine, and there’s something in his that I can’t interpret.

It’s not a no.

But it’s not a yes, either.

It’s more of a wince.

He pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket. “I might know someone.”

“It’s okay. I can call Griff. Portia’s husband. Firefighter. They’ll knock the door down for me. They know Hudson. I mean if I can’t get a locksmith.” I’m not getting laid tonight. “You don’t have to wait. If you don’t want—”

“Ingrid.” He squeezes my forearm, which is one of those gestures I had no idea I was missing. Everything in my arm warms, and then it spreads to my chest, and it’s suddenly easier to breathe. “My way’s more fun. Possibly more dangerous, but definitely more fun.”

“More dangerous than boxes of yodeling chickens?”

“Only for me.”

He looks up from his phone, winks, then hands me the pretzel bag. “Sit. Dig in. Help’s on the way.”





Twenty-One





Levi



It’s not unusual for me to wake up and not know where I am, but it is unusual to wake up, not know where I am, have a crick in my neck, and still be utterly and completely relaxed and happy.

Must’ve been the dream.

I let myself smile, because I can still hear it. It sounds like Ingrid. “Levi. Hey, sexy pants. Sun’s coming up. Gotta move.”

Wait.

That’s not a dream.

Dammit.

I pry one eyelid open and decide I’m good with this not being a dream.

Ingrid’s bending over me. Her hair’s down and damp, leaving wet marks where it falls on her shoulders. Her lips are full and rosy, her eyes dark, her cheeks smooth where my fingers drift to touch them.

“Morning.”

Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. “Good morning, sleepyhead. My kids are awake and both of my girls know exactly who you are, so if you don’t want them telling their friends that I know you and that you crashed overnight in the bookstore’s loft, you need to hurry.”

“I like your loft. It has music.”

“There isn’t a single minute of the day when you’re not attractive, is there?”

“Nope.” I snag her at the waist and pull her to the couch with me. I don’t remember falling asleep last night. I remember Davis coming over and working his magic. Ingrid asking him if he finally found a new book on wave theory, or if Dog Man really is more his speed. Davis smirking at me, then texting that I owe him a cover story for next Tuesday night in payment. I’d be mad, except I like the game, and he knows it. He asks me for favors from time to time too.

I remember Ingrid sitting with me on the couch, with four different house keys and her baby monitor in hand, moaning over the pretzel.

Laughing over stupid shit we both did in our younger years.

Every time I thought I’d one-upped her, she came back with a story of her own from her time in the Army, or before, with her grandmother.

She really did see the world before she settled here to raise her kids.

And the number of things she does and sees with them on any given day is amazing too.

I curl a lock of her damp hair around my finger. “What are you doing Friday night?”

“Soaking my feet and using the back stretcher thingie that Piper got for me at last year’s holiday fair at school. Assuming I manage to get upstairs before midnight, that is. And I don’t actually know if it’s a back stretcher or if it’s a missing part of a cat-sized hamster wheel or something, I just know it feels really good to stretch when I remember and have the energy to use it.”

Oh. Right.

Dammit.

Holiday shopping season. Retail store.

She’s probably even less available than I am for the next month.

Should be comforting, but that gut-level disappointment tells me this isn’t the casual fling it’s supposed to be.

Neither was flying home early because I missed her.

I have it bad. “Tell me more about this back stretcher thing.”

She kisses my cheek, and my morning wood tries to sprout an extra branch. “Later. C’mon, you big sack of potatoes. Don’t make me nag you like I nag my kids to get moving in the morning.”

“Can I come back tonight?”

A thousand thoughts flit over her face, and I swear I can read at least four or five of them. She’s probably thinking about which kid has which activity tonight, when she can get out to have a few more spare keys made, if I want to just hang out in her loft and write songs after the store’s closed, or if I want to help her tuck the kids into bed.

I like her kids.

They’re funny. At least, they seem funny, based on all the stories she’s told me. Zoe’s apparently wicked smart, which is no surprise for an oldest kid. Piper sounds unstoppable on ice skates. And I’m pretty sure Hudson and I could be life-long friends.

He’s definitely the type to dare someone to lick a metal lamppost on a snowy day. And also the kind to probably take the dare.

Thirty years ago, he would’ve fit right in back in my neighborhood.