Page 82 of The Grump Next Door
“And I want him to.” Crap. Did I say that out loud? “I mean—”
“Too late!” CeCe’s practically vibrating. “You admitted it!”
“I’m leaving Sunday.” I stare at the ceiling, which is stained with water and questionable life choices. “Italy. Vacation. No Dean Whitaker and his stupid competent hands.”
“Competent hands?” Gloria murmurs. “Interesting word choice.”
“Have you seen his hands? They’re like… architect hands.”
“What the heck are architect hands?” Ivy asks.
“I don’t know! Precise. Capable. Like they could build something or… or…”
“Or take you apart?” Gloria suggests with a wink.
“I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t.” CeCe grins. “You know what I think?”
“That I need water?”
“That you’re scared.”
That lands like a gut punch. “Of what?”
“Of wanting something real with someone who sees through your bullshit.”
“I don’t have—”
“Poppy.” Her voice goes soft. “Babe. You haven’t told him about Miranda.”
The table goes quiet.
“That’s different,” I mutter.
“Is it?”
“Yes. Because that’s business. This is…”
“What?” Gloria asks.
I grab Ivy’s drink, steal it, and down half of it. “Complicated.”
“The best things always are,” Ivy says.
“That’s bride brain talking.”
“Or maybe I think you deserve someone who makes you midnight pasta and catches you when you fall.”
“I wasn’t falling—”
“Metaphorically, bitch.”
We all laugh, but it’s sharp around the edges.
“He’s just so…” I wave vaguely.
“Hot?” CeCe supplies.
