Page 39 of Blush Crush

It takes me a second to realize it’s Travis, which is…unexpected.

He used to be Ethan’s best friend, always over at our house. I thought of him like another annoying older brother—right up until he betrayed Ethan. Ever since then, no one in the family really talks to him. I didn’t realize he and Layla were so chummy. Chummy enough that she’s laughing at whatever he’s saying.

When she falls back in step beside me, I glance at her. “What’s up with you and Travis?”

She lifts a shoulder like it’s nothing. “He comes into the ER all the time. He’s a paramedic too, so we run into each other a lot. I was just saying hi.”

Her voice has that familiar defensive edge, so I know to leave it alone. Still, I file it away to revisit when she feels like telling me more.

At the next hole, Ethan waves us over to watch our dad line up a putt, and somehow in the reshuffling of people I end up standing two feet from Cole.

He glances sideways at me.

I laser-focus on the green.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi.” I keep my voice light. Perfectly pleasant. The voice I use with customers I don’t know well.

I can be friendly. Friendly is my comfort zone.

A beat of silence opens between us, longer than it should be.

“You look—” he starts.

“How’s the round going?” I ask at the same time.

He stops, letting out a stifled chuckle. “Good. We’re losing to the old guys.”

“Yeah…that sucks.”

Cole shifts his weight, and I can sense his gaze on the side of my face, like if he stares long enough I’ll notice and give him my attention.

“Ariana.”

“Mm?”

“Are you going to look at me or are we just going to stare at the green until one of us dies?”

The laugh catches me off guard, slipping out before I can stop it. I turn, and he’s watching me with an expression that’s almost careful. Which is unusual for Cole, who approaches most things in life like he’s never once considered the consequences.

“I looked at you,” I say. “Earlier.”

“For about half a second.”

“That’s plenty long enough to confirm you’re still alive.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “So you were checking on me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

His eyes drift over me—not in a creepy way, but it’s blatant enough to feel a burn take over my cheeks.

“You look different,” he comments.

I keep my expression neutral. “Different how.” It isn’t a question. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of sounding like I care about his answer.

“Good different.” His voice is even, like he’s stating a fact rather than offering a compliment. “You look good. Everything is more…fitted.”