Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 42882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
“I like you, Jay,” he said with a smile. “I like you a lot. You’re just so damned nice.”
It didn’t sound like a criticism, exactly, but like something Lane couldn’t quite comprehend, the same way I didn’t understand some of the podcasts I’d heard him listening to… or how I’d come to be standing in my garage with his face touching mine.
I really, really hoped my niceness wasn’t a dealbreaker for him… but just in case, I started arguing.
“I’m not nice. Not at all. In fact, just yesterday, I saw Mrs. Jackson—Hunter’s mom—heading to the only open cashier at Henson’s Grocery, and I deliberately picked up the pace to beat her there. She had at least twenty cans of diced tomatoes on account of the buy-one-get-one thing they still have going on, and if you know Sherri Wattel at all, you know she’d insist on scanning every single one of them through.”
Lane’s laughter rumbled out of his chest. “Wow. You’re going to hell, Jaybird Proud.”
“Yep.” I nodded eagerly. “Sure am. Of course, Mrs. Jackson and I got to talking, and she asked me to help her out to her car with her bags, so I ended up spending half an hour watching Sherri ring the cans anyway,” I admitted. “But… but that’s not all! I also deliberately didn’t clean out Hector Moore’s ashtray in his truck at the car wash the other day.”
Lane whistled, low and impressed. “Oh, well, now, that’s terrible,” he said, sounding so happy and fond I kept talking.
“Right? I mean, technically, it’s because Hector knows how I feel about his smoking. I warned him he was gonna have to clean his own butts from now on, kinda hoping it would help him kick the habit, but he still looked real disappointed.”
“Mmhm.” Lane rubbed his nose against mine.
I racked my brain, trying to think of something even worse that I’d done. When I took a deep breath and inhaled Lane’s scent, the answer came to me.
“Not only that, but I got a call asking for old coat donations… and I didn’t donate, even though I do, in fact, have an old coat right now.” I nodded once, firmly, because that ought to convince him. It had been a purely selfish choice on my part. Not nice at all.
But Lane only seemed tickled pink by my admission… which kinda concerned me.
Was he evil?
When he pulled back and smirked—the man was unlawfully good-looking, especially when his eyes twinkled like that—I decided I didn’t care if he was. Evil looked real good on him.
“There was a perfectly good, nice reason you chose not to donate your coat, wasn’t there?” he teased. “Go on. Admit it.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’d prefer more kissing to this interrogation, thank you very much.”
“I’ll kiss you for every evil deed you tell me about. Howbout that?”
“Mfh.”
He chuckled, and the sound made my stomach fizz like soda pop. “Tell me why you didn’t donate the coat, Jay.”
I realized I was stuck. I either had to lie to someone I never wanted to lie to… or I had to reveal something embarrassing.
If given the choice between hurting him and humoring him, I’d have to choose humor every time. So I confessed the truth.
“Because it’s the one I brought you that day you left yours at home, and it still smells like you.”
Chapter Three
Lane
Jay’s words lingered in the air between us.
It still smells like you.
No human could be this sweet. Not without a reason. Not without a… a motive.
But my brain immediately called up a million examples of how he could be—how he was—and played them for me like one of those cheesy but adorable movie montages.
Last summer, when I’d planned to spend a whole afternoon relaxing in the backyard, I’d gotten derailed by some pictures on Chad’s Instagram and had instead spent hours hate-scrolling his honeymoon pictures, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I hadn’t realized I’d said the words out loud until suddenly, Jay was beside me with a giant pair of clippers, asking for my help while he trimmed back the sickly crepe myrtle behind the garage.
“This little tree’s a tricky one,” he’d said as he’d worked. “If left to its own devices, it’ll tangle itself up until it blocks out its own sunlight.” He’d shot me a sideways glance. “But there’s nothing wrong with it that a little pruning won’t fix.”
By the time we’d finished gardening—which had taken a lot longer than necessary since Jay had “accidentally” squirted me with the hose during cleanup—I’d forgotten all about Chad.
Another time last fall, after I’d spent a full day and night at the clinic trying to save the life of Maisy Topher’s seventeen-year-old German shepherd, Claude—“He’s my best friend, Doc Lane. Please.”—I’d arrived home shortly after sunrise to find Jay sitting on my steps holding a takeout container of triple chocolate cake from Annie’s Bakery.