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Unlike many avid viewers of the franchise, Gran hate watches. Back in the day, before we had to take away her internet access due to her excessive trolling and one tiny bomb threat, she aired her grievances in multipleBachelorsubreddits. I wish I’d thought to print screenshots and have them bound up in a book so she could reminisce about the good old days before Bailey took the Wi-Fi away.
“You could learn something from this, you know.” Now, Gran points the remote at the TV, which is on mute with subtitles scrolling across the screen. A woman with mascara streaking down her face is weeping in a limousine, wondering why she isn’t enough.
At least, Ithinkthat’s what she’s wondering. The subtitles haven’t been entered correctly, so it actually reads,Why am I not a cough for him?
“What can I learn, exactly?”
“Always wear waterproof mascara,” Gran says. “You never know when someone’s going to break your heart.”
I’m too antsy to wait in my apartment for Eli to pick me up. I changed my clothes twice—which feels reasonable, all things considered—then cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom and started folding my underwear before deciding a short walk to the parking lot might dispel some of this nervous energy.
The only thing it does is make me clearly see all the reasons Eli slept outside my front door not even a week ago. Itisdark—too dark. I find myself scurrying from one pool of light to the other all the way to the parking lot, where I stand near my car, directly under the sole working streetlight. Every time a door slams or I hear a raised voice from an apartment somewhere, I jump.
Okay, so my limited budget doesn’t cover safety. Noted.
When Eli’s dark SUV pulls into the lot, my nerves hit a crescendo, like a tiny orchestra is playing furiously and with wild abandon inside me. It takes effort to wait for Eli to park. Part of me wants to run, take a leap, and slide across his hoodlike people always do in cop movies. Only … there is no world in which I possess that level of coordination.
Eli parks and hops out, his smile wide as he brushes his hair away from his eyes. He’s growing out his facial hair, it seems, and my fingers twitch with the urge to touch the short whiskers, a smidge darker than the hair on his head. Almost the color of lightly toasted bread, and I happen to love toast.
“Hey,” I say, stepping forward and giving him a little wave.
Eli’s smile widens, but he fumbles and drops his phone, which goes skittering underneath his car somewhere. He leaves it.
“I was going to come to your door,” he says, joining me on the sidewalk.
I’m glad to know I chose my outfit well—what I’d call nice casual, which perfectly matches what Eli’s wearing. We’re both in jeans, Eli with blue-checked Vans sneakers and me in boots. The blue shirt he’s wearing makes his eyes pop, even in the dim light.
“I couldn’t wait,” I say. “I probably shouldn’t admit that but …” I shrug and look him over again. It’s a really nice view. “Hey—you’re still not wearing a coat.”
“I’m fine,” he says, then fidgets, lifting his hand like he’s trying to decide whether to hug me or shake my hand or nothing at all, which is what he finally decides to do, stuffing his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans.
I wilt a little. Because I really could have used a hug.
As though I’ve broadcast these thoughts across my face like a lit marquis, Eli pulls his hands out of his pockets and wraps me in a hug so quickly that my forehead hits his collarbone and my arms are trapped between us. I wiggle them out, sliding them around Eli’s waist. Now I understand him not wearing a coat. The man is a furnace.
“Sorry,” he whispers.
“Don’t apologize. I like hugs from you.”
“Then I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner. But next time I’ll try not to slam your face into my collarbone.”
“I like your collarbone too.”
Go ahead, Bailey. Just confessall the things. Might as well tell him you can’t stop thinking about kissing him and also that you have more than friendly, more thancontractual marriagefeelings for him.
After a moment, Eli sighs and lets me go. But not completely. He takes my hand, opening the car door and helping me inside. I suck in a breath when he leans across me to buckle my seatbelt, the scent and heat of him overwhelming me. If I were a bolder person, maybe someone with Shannon’s level of confidence, I’d lean forward and brush my lips across his cheeks.
But I’m me, so I just imagine how his whiskers would feel against my lips while my heart stutters out a panicked rhythm.
The belt clicks into place, and he pulls away. “Safety first.”
I laugh. “I could have done that myself, thank you.”But I’m glad you did,I don’t add.Just before he closes my door, I remember his phone. “Oh! Don’t forget your phone under the car.”
As Eli climbs into the car, his stomach makes an unholy sound. I bite back a laugh as he presses a hand over his abdomen like he’s trying to shush it. Then he puts the car in gear—and bumps right into the curb. Apparently, he put it in drive, not reverse.
“Are you okay over there?” I ask. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him so … unsteady.
He puts the car in park and runs a hand through his hair, pretty much glaring at the dashboard. “I’m sorry.”
