don’t broach any serious topics again for the rest of the morning. She goes into her bathroom to shower and get ready for the day, and I make myself useful by snooping through the stack of papers on her counter. I notice that they are offers to buy Stacy’s half of the bakery.
My first thought is that I should add my name to the top. My second thought is to take that first thought and burn it to the ground. June doesn’t need me to help her run that bakery. She doesn’t need anyone’s help with it. I honestly don’t know why she’s entertaining offers when she should buy it herself.
But when she comes out of her room an hour later in a form-fitting, black, long-sleeve top, hair braided and draped over one shoulder, and tight jeans hugging her waist with holes down the legs that do more than hint at the soft tan skin living under them, I push the papers aside and decide we’ll talk about it later. She looks good. Better than good. This woman is a killer, and as I grab her jeans by the belt loops and tug her closer to me, I realize I’m dead.
I love her. I think I always have.
“June,” I say, dragging out her name to let her know I’m suspicious. “Why do you smell like me?”
She peeks up at me from under her long lashes and presses her lips together. She’s a kid who just got caught with a bar of chocolate smeared all over her face. “I was out of my body wash, so I had to use yours?” She phrased it like a question, not a statement.
I shake my head at her. She used my body wash.
She loves me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
June
I come home from work on Friday afternoon to a note on my bed beside an empty duffle bag that reads: Be packed by 5:00. Plane leaves for Chicago at 8:30, and we’re going to be on it. I took the liberty of starting your packing for you. You’re welcome.
I peek in the bag and realize it’s not totally empty. It looks as if Ryan pulled out my lingerie drawer and dumped the entire contents into this duffle bag. Ha! You wish, buddy.
After I’ve removed over three-fourths of the options Ryan and his liberty chose for me, I pack a few of the winter items I never get to wear in Charleston. Honestly, part of me thought Ryan forgot about Chicago. It’s been a few days since he mentioned it, so I assumed it was on the back burner. Or not happening at all. Which was fine with me, considering how amazing our time here has been together.
Ryan has been staying with me all week, doing lots of things that feel suspiciously like dating, although he always swears it’s not.
Me: Let me get this straight. You want to take me to dinner, but it’s not a date?
Ryan: Right. We just both need to eat, and you’re out of food. (I had plenty of food.) And I’m going to pay for you, too. Easier than making the waitress split the bill.
And then my personal favorite is when we snuggle before bed and watch a movie.
Me: Is this still not a date? (He was literally lying horizontal with me on the couch.)
Ryan: Nope. I do this with all my friends. But usually Logan makes me be the little spoon.
After I’ve finished packing and freshening my makeup, I have ten minutes to spare. I feel an undeniable need to keep moving, though, so I go in to clean my kitchen. Except, Ryan must have already done it earlier, not anticipating my need to stress-clean every surface in my house. How dare he be so thoughtful and clean my kitchen! That’s fine. I just need to get some blood flowing (a phrase I’ve never thought in my life, but I always hear Jake say when he’s stressed).
So, I do jumping jacks.
Now, I know I’m being absurd—that was never in question—but I have to keep moving, because if I sit still, I’ll chicken out. I think that’s why Ryan went ahead and booked our flights for tonight. He knew too much time between me agreeing to go with him and the actual departure date, and I would pack up my whole house and move to Hawaii just to avoid taking this trip with him.
I’m very mature in relationships.
I’m mid-jump when my phone starts ringing. “Talk to me!” I say like one of those overly