Page 20 of Charmed By the Next-Door Neighbor
The way it completely engulfs mine. The warmth of it. The rough calluses on his palm. The way his thumb is resting against the side of my hand like it belongs there.
I'm holding hands with Nash Holland, and I might actually pass out.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice low.
"Fine. Great. Totally fine."
I sound manic. His grip tightens slightly, and I don't know if he's trying to reassure me or steady me, but either way it works.
Sort of.
The restaurant is even fancier inside than it looked from the parking lot. All dark wood and cream-colored linens and soft jazz playing from hidden speakers. The kind of place where the waiters probably make more money than I do.
My parents are already seated at a table near the window. Of course they are. My mother doesn't believe in being fashionably late. She believes in being early so she can judge everyone else when they arrive.
She sees us first.
Her eyes drop immediately to our joined hands, and her expression does the usual. Surprise, disapproval, and maybe a tiny hint of concern.
Good.
"Claire," she says as we approach. "You made it."
"We made it," I correct, squeezing Nash's hand. "Traffic wasn't bad."
My father stands, and I watch him take in Nash. All of Nash again. The height, the build, the scars visible on his forearms below his rolled-up sleeves. The gray in his hair. The fact that he's probably closer to my parents' age than mine.
"Nash," my father says, extending his hand. "Good to see you again."
Nash lets go of my hand to shake my father's, and I immediately miss the contact.
"You too, sir."
Sir. He called my father sir. I don't know why that does something to me, but it does.
We sit, and Nash pulls out my chair before I can do it myself. His hand brushes my lower back as I sit down, just for a second, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.
He sits next to me, close enough that our legs are almost touching under the table.
Almost.
A waiter appears with menus and water glasses, and my mother orders a bottle of wine that probably costs more than my rent.
"So," she says once the waiter disappears. "Nash. You told us you’re retired from firefighting, right?"
"Yes ma'am."
"That must have been quite the career."
"It was."
My mother waits for him to elaborate. He doesn't.
She takes a sip of water. "And now you do... odd jobs?"
"That's right."
"What kind of odd jobs?"
