Page 13 of My Grape Crush
“Partial survival?” I crack a smile.
Dani laughs and takes a step back. “You’re funny. And you should be fine. Take a look.”
She hands me a small mirror from the kit to gauge for myself. Aside from looking like a dork with gauze jammed in both nostrils, this injury is minor. But how I wish it were major if it meant more of her attention.
“Put some ice on it just in case,” she recommends. “And take the supplies with you.”
Light and shadows play across her face, her voice soft and final as she packs up the kit. Maybe it’s the adrenaline wearing off, or her gentle compassion. Both inspire me to hunker down and get cozy, although I sense my visit is drawing to a close.
How to extend it?
I spot a tin of Folger’s pre-ground on the counter next to a cheap, dollar-store plastic coffee maker.
“You steal that from a Motel 6?” I joke.
Dani cocks one thin, shaped brow. “Are you judging me?”
“Possibly.”
“Says the guy with the overblown rider.”
“If you can forgive me the bed, I’ll overlook your taste in coffee.”
She leans against the counter, studying me with a slow burn of a smile spreading on her face. “Tell me the truth,” she says. “Is it worth it? Do you sleep that much better?”
“You tell me,” I say. “I’m officially donating it to you when we’re done.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “The plan was to send it back and eat a small restock fee.”
Before I can tell her to dock the full price from my final invoice, her phone chimes. Dani tugs it out of her shorts, glances at the screen, then sends the call to voicemail.
“I should call my sister back sooner than later,” she says, a hint of reluctance in her voice.
“Sister?” I tilt my head at this news. “She said she was your BFF.”
Dani blinks. A blankness settles on her face. “She’s both.”
The niggle at the back of my mind from earlier returns. I struggled to pinpoint why that woman’s voice sounded familiar. And Dani just sounded a bit wary at the mention of her.
“Oh, don't forget.” Dani sets down the phone, whirls around, and opens the fridge to brandish a carton of coffee cream. She wiggles the container in her hand with a sly expression. “You probably thought I had caramel-flavored creamer, didn’t you?”
I smile back. “I guess it’s my lucky day.”
As she hands me the cream, her fingers graze mine and linger, like they did when she took back her phone. Our eyes meet, and something else pulses in the air between us, something electric and powerful. I feel a punch of emotion in my chest, almost knocking me off my feet. All I can hear is the fan sputtering on overdrive in the other room and the frantic thrum of my own heartbeat.
“What time is brunch tomorrow?” I manage to ask.
My question slices through the loaded tension, and Dani pulls back slightly, her posture stiffening as the strange spell between us dissolves. Just like that, she slips back into official mode.
“Noon,” she replies. “At Evelyn’s place. Follow the path up from your villa, or text me if you get lost.” She hands me the first aid kit, this time careful not to let our hands overlap. “And, speaking of texting, next time, send me one before you come over. And feel free to use the real front door.”
She points to the Home Depot special next to the picture window, winks, and flashes a grin more arch thanduh, you idiot.Feelings I have no name for churn to the surface from wherever I had them quarantined. What would it feel like to kiss that lush, lip-glossed mouth?
A thrilling sense of inevitability surges through me.
So many questions. And five full weeks to answer them.
Our goodbye doesn't feel so final.
