Page 55 of Fall Love

“And I’ve got that doctor’s appointment on Wednesday,” she says, like I’ve forgotten.

“Got it in my calendar. I’ll pick you up.”

Neve doesn’t fight me on the idea.

“So, the car show . . .” I start. She’s already thanked me for attending, and now I have a deeper question. “Have you ever considered working on classic cars? You told me how you fixed up that Bronco with your dad. Ever consider doing it on your own?”

Neve blows out a breath. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about acquiring classic cars. Or running a business doing it.”

I chuckle. “But you’ve already run an auto-repair business.”

“And look at the shitty job I did.”

“You didn’t do a shitty job, Neve. You played the hand you were dealt and did what you could with it.” I pause, leaning my arms on the table. “Have you ever considered a fresh start? On your own?”

She stares at me like she hasn’t thought about it.

“You could get a financial advisor to help you out.”

“I don’t have the money,” she says, her voice low, like the wind is knocked out of her.

“But you will soon.” The sale of the garage will be divided four ways, but Neve will still have a nice settlement to use toward something new. A place of her own.

“I wouldn’t know where to start.” Her voice is still hushed, her eyes lowered as she runs her fingers along the checkered tablecloth.

“I could help you.”

Her head pops up, but then she looks to the side. “I don’t know.”

I pull back, because I don’t want to push, but I hope I’ve planted a seed. “Maybe just think about it.”

Because I don’t want her working for Bucky Beaver. There isn’t a job there.

When our food arrives, Neve digs into the lobster roll she ordered.

She hums around the first bite, closing her eyes like it’s the best she’s ever eaten. When her eyes open, she looks directly at me.

“You’ve got something . . .” I point at my mouth, then reach across the table to the crumbs on the corner of her lip. The second I make contact, I slow my touch, taking an extra swipe over her mouth.

Neve remains frozen. Holding her sandwich in her hands, her eyes wide. Her mouth softly popping open.

If we weren’t in a public place, I might hand-feed her the lobster chunks. Let her suck on my fingers again.

Instead, I clear my throat, retract my hand, and dig into my own sandwich.

“I wish I had room for the pumpkin pie on the menu,” she says, once our meal ends. “But I’m stuffed.”

“How about apple pie? At your place?”

Neve gives me a long look before agreeing. “Sure, you can come over.”

Our eyes lock because it sounded a little like she put extra emphasis on that second to last word. Playing over it like we did the night we met.

However, once back at Neve’s, all playfulness is gone. We turn on her television set, find a movie, and Neve promptly falls asleep. Her head lolls on my shoulder as we sit close on her small couch.

When I stretch my arm around her, guiding her head down to my lap, Neve kicks her feet up to the cushions, and I tug the blanket draped along the back of the couch over her. Then I run my fingers through her hair, pulling out the hairpins she uses to hold the waves back. I comb through those short curly strands and settle in.

Neve was right earlier. We aren’t living in a romantic movie.