Page 60 of Falling for Her

Me:

Okay.

Lincoln:

You can’t just stop talking to me.

“Want to bet?” I glare at the phone, thinking of a one-word answer to not let him win. I snort. “Actually, you know what is better than one word?” I ask the phone. “Zero words.”

The bubble with the three dots comes up again.

Lincoln:

Finley.

I think about answering him, but instead I get up and head to my room. I toss the phone on the bed before I take off my top, throw it in the basket, and add the shorts and panties. I take a shower, exfoliating my skin and doing all the things I can to pamper myself in this tiny bathroom. Wrapping the towel around me and then my hair, I make my way over to my phone and see that he texted me two more times.

Lincoln:

Finley, this is ridiculous.

Lincoln:

How am I supposed to apologize if you won’t talk to me?

Me:

That is a you problem, Lincoln, not a me problem.

Lincoln:

Good night, we’ll talk tomorrow.

“Oh no, we won’t,” I tell the phone and not him. Sitting on the bed, I wonder what he’s doing in the house right now.

I toss my phone aside, going back to the bathroom to comb out my hair, then slide into bed. I lay on my side and close my eyes, seeing his face right before he kissed me, remembering the feel of his hand on my face. I think my whole body felt his heat. It was like an electric shock pulsed my body awake.

I sleep like the dead and only wake up when my alarm rings. I grab the phone and shut it off before lying back on the pillow. I would usually get out of bed and make my coffee now and go sit outside where Lincoln might be waiting for me. Instead, I linger in bed until the very last minute.

I make the bed and look outside, seeing it’s a gloomy day. The rain is a welcome escape after two weeks of summer heat. I dress in a pair of loose-fitting ivory cashmere pants—the soft fabric is perfect for this weather. I tie a bow at the waist and grab the matching tank top, slipping it on over my bra. The top hits right above my belly button, so I put on a brown zip sweater, letting it hang open.

I make my coffee, and when it’s 8:00 a.m. on the nose, I walk out of the apartment to the house barefoot, since I left my flip-flops there yesterday.

Lincoln is in the kitchen, dressed in his uniform. He’s leaning against the counter, his phone in his hand.

My phone buzzes when I get to the door.

Lincoln:

Are you coming to work today?

I open the door, and his eyes fly up to me.

“Good morning,” he says, and I see him do a slow sweep of my outfit. My chest starts to feel heavy under his gaze.

“Morning,” I mumble, sticking to one-word answers.

“I have to get going.” He doesn’t move from his spot. “It’s going to rain all day today.”