Page 91 of Playing Along

“Focus, mister.” She waggles a finger at me. “We are on a mission.”

“I’m pretty sure I have a different mission than you,” I reply, earning myself a little swat on the chest even as her flush of pleasure grows.

“No more funny business,” she instructs with stern eyes but twitching lips. “We’re getting in and out of there. And I don’t want to hear a word about what I come out with. It doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

She’s making no sense, but I’m too far gone to care.

As soon as we’re in the house I kiss her again, backing her up against the foyer wall and taking my sweet time with her mouth. Who said this needed to be a quick trip? Not me.

When we finally pull apart, Nora’s eyes are lidded and her breathing is fast— she looks perfect.

“Jack,” she breathes, temporarily forgetting her qualms, but then the desire fades from her eyes and she swats me again. “Jack! I said no funny business.”

“Oh I wasn’t trying to be funny,” I say huskily.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

She sucks in a breath, but then shakes her head and steps out of my grasp, dancing away from me. “I just need to grab one thing. One tiny thing. So stay.” She holds up a hand like I’m a dog. “Stay,” she repeats firmly. Unfortunately for her I’m not a very good dog, and as soon as her back is turned I take off after her.

My steps falter, though, as my gaze hitches on something hanging on her coat rack. Last night I came in through the back door, plus it was dark, so I may have missed this item either way. But tonight I can see it perfectly. I lift a sleeve on the familiar navy blue sweatshirt. One that reads Grand Rapids Police Academy across the chest and Reynolds across the back. I’ve been missing this sweatshirt for three years.

No, not missing it. I knew Nora had it. After all, she was wearing it the night I proposed.

But I always assumed she’d gotten rid of it or at the very least hidden it away.

Yet here it is, hanging on her coat rack, like she wears it all the time. I grab it off the hook and hang it on my forearm, my curiosity suddenly peaked.

Nora didn’t want me to come inside. Is this sweatshirt, my sweatshirt, part of the reason why? And are there more things like it?

I step further into her condo, keeping my eyes peeled. I’m probably being stupid. The sweatshirt is likely just a one off. After all, it was her favorite when we were dating, so it makes sense she’d still wear it now and again.

Even if it does have my last name on it. The last name she claims not to want to take as her own.

Which is something I’m fine with.

Or at least that I’m trying to be fine with.

My feet come to a halt as I enter her kitchen. I didn’t come in here at all last night, and as I look around my mouth lifts in a smile. There’s a box of tea on the counter, a cheery red teapot on the stovetop, and there on the fridge is a magnet that says: “But indeed I would rather have nothing but tea.” -Jane Austen.

I got her that magnet. I stride over to the fridge and pull it off. A folded up paper falls to the floor, and I bend to retrieve it, unfolding it to see my own handwriting scrawled across the paper.

Some hot tea for you, my love because that is what you are: a hottie.

I remember writing this note. Nora had gotten sick with the flu, and I’d come over to check on her. While I was over here I made her a cup of tea and wrote her this note in hopes of bringing a smile to her face.

And she kept it all of these years. Tucked away behind a magnet I gave her. I add both items to my pile and head out of the kitchen. I’ve lost track of Nora, so I simply head to the living room next, wondering if I’ll find any relics of our relationship in here to add to my growing pile.

I don’t have to wonder for long. As soon as I walk in I spot it: a framed photo of Shadow, one of the horses I sold a few months ago and also the horse I taught Nora to ride on.

I walk over to the wall and lift the photo off its hook, adding it to my haul. I’m not even surprised when a paper falls to the floor this time. I scoop it up to find another handwritten note.

Nora,

Yesterday you accused me of letting you win our little horse race on purpose…today I confess that this might have been true. But, it wasn’t for the reason that you thought. I wasn’t, as you suggested, trying to give you a false sense of confidence. The truth is—I just like staring at your butt. There, I said it. I like your butt, Nora. And it looks extra good on a horse.

So tell that to your sense of confidence. Give it a well-deserved boost.

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