Colt
It’s nearly nine o’clock, and we’re settling back into our first race post–snack break.
Whit brought out creamsicles—as if the mountain of candy wasn’t enough sugar—and I nearly combusted when she took the entire orange treat into her mouth and sucked, cheeks hollowed out before releasing with a loud pop.
I could sit and watch Whit’s tongue work its way around an ice cream treat for hours on end, but I’d prefer to do that without her kid present.
Then he unknowingly took his job as cockblocker very seriously.
A fart-burp combo killed the mood on impact, sending everyone fleeing back to the couch.
Even Betty hightailed it out of the kitchen, taking up residence under the coffee table once again.
And Whit tossed her popsicle in the trash en route to the living room, claiming he ruined her dessert.
He was entirely unapologetic.
“Winner races your mom,” I taunt Jonas, once the dust, er…gas, has settled and we’re all comfortably back in our respective spots on the couch.
Whit’s curled up under a fuzzy white blanket, toying with a sour key in her mouth, and she gives me a look that says she has no desire to play along.
“Mom’s an even worser driver than you,” Jonas says at the same moment his car crashes into a wall.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Whit sets her sour key down, brushing the loose sugar from her fingers on her denim shorts. “I’m a great driver. And I spent a lot of time playing Mario Kart with your dad as a teenager. Kicked his butt every single time.”
“I’m dying to see this.” Letting my car roll to a stop in the middle of the race, I hold my controller out to her.
With a devilish grin, Whit snatches it and jumps into the race like an old pro. Weaving through NPC cars and clawing her way from sixth to second in a matter of seconds. Slack-jawed, Jonas crashes into a wall again.
“Holy shit. Are you practicing all night while Jonas is asleep or something?”
She sits back with a winning exhale, simply cruising through the street race like she’s on a casual Sunday drive. “Told you I was good.”
“Like…underground gamer good,” Jonas says. It’s hard to tell if he’s mad or impressed. “Who are you and what have you done with my mom?”
After her car’s crossed the finish line, she sets the controller down and stretches her arms out in front of her. Then cracks her knuckles and rolls her neck while we wait for Jonas to finish dead last.
“Time for your victory dance, Mama,” I say.
“No, no.” She waves her hands in front of her face. “I don’t dance.”
“No way. You got to sit there and laugh at our silly dance moves.” I gesture toward the open living room floor. Her big eyes meet mine with a flicker of heat.
“I don’t need to rub it in that I won.” She grabs a sour key and pops it onto her blue-stained tongue.
“I mean, technically I did the first three-quarters of that race. It was a joint effort, so I’ll dance with you.” I shake out the weariness in my legs when I stand up and reach for her hand. Teasing, I add, “Come on, Whittaker.”
To my surprise, she takes it. Warm, smooth palm sliding into my work-worn one.
Rolling her eyes, she says, “It turns out I actually like the name Whitney a lot more now. I’ll have my parents send their gratitude your way.”
I pull her to her feet and bust out a robot move to get the party started. The only music we have is from the video game lobby, which is some type of obscure hard rock that’s not exactly meant for dancing. Good thing the classic robot arm moves don’t need to be on beat.
Her slender body shimmies in place. The most half-assed victory dance to ever exist.
“That’s the best you got?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.
“She has a scuba diving move she loves,” Jonas adds. “It’s really stupid.”
I don’t know what the boundaries are when it comes to disciplining this kid. On the ranch, I can tell him to stop being a piece of shit. But this is a gray area.
Regardless, I can’t bite my tongue fast enough. “Don’t call your mom stupid.”
“I said her dance move is—”
“Don’t finish that sentence. It’s all the same shit. Don’t do it. Capisce?”
He blinks at me. “What?”
“You understand?”
Clearly still confused, he simply nods and reaches for his pop, avoiding eye contact with me. Which is fine, because I’m immediately searching Whit’s face for a sign that I didn’t cross a line just now.
“Okay, let me show you my very cool scuba diving move.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder, then plugs her nose in one hand and wiggles in a way that I guess is supposed to mimic swimming. I’ve never been diving, so what do I know?
Besides, it’s fucking adorable.
There’s never been a better time to bust out my pretend fishing rod.
I cast it right at Whit, and she plays into it, hopping across the floor until she’s the closest she’s ever been, and her body language is begging me to make the space smaller.
When the area rug folds over on itself under her feet, she frantically reaches out to steady herself, dainty fingers tight around my bicep.
I knew she was tall, but having her so close, I realize how easy it would be to bend ever-so-slightly and kiss her lips.
Forehead. Nose. All of it is right there, ripe for the taking.
“Oops, nearly fell right off the hook there,” she says, a laugh drawn up through her eyes.
Maybe she did, but I won’t. She’s got me—hook, line, and sinker.
“Better scoop you up in the net before you’re the one that got away, eh?”
“The one you tell all your buddies about?”
“The tale of all tales. I’ll be sitting around telling my grandkids about it one day.”
I can’t help but notice her hand hasn’t left its spot on my arm. Each second is marked by bass in an instrumental song, and the beat somehow draws her closer to me. She moves like water, swaying and bending, leaving me no choice but to wonder how her body might curve around mine.
Her eyes flicker to my lips. For one breathless moment, I think she might go for it.
“You guys are weird.” Jonas tosses a handful of candy into his mouth. “We need a rematch so I can kick your butt and never see the scuba diving move again.”
Before she pulls away, Whit’s fingernails skate down the length of my arm. They might as well have been dipped in poison, the way my skin burns and my heart nearly stops.
“Please. I’ll be doing it at your wedding one day.” Joining him on the couch, she leans forward with her elbows resting on her thighs. With the flip of a switch, she’s right back into gamer mode. “Maybe even at your funeral tonight. We’ll see how this next race goes.”
Just as I was starting to find Whit’s mossy-green stare more intriguing than intimidating to me, this competitive streak showed up out of nowhere.
And an hour later, when a frustrated Jonas demands their sixth rematch of the night—despite his mom mopping the floor with him every time—I find myself shaking my head at her, practically begging for mercy on his behalf. She might make the kid cry.
“Not tonight, kiddo,” she says. “You should head to bed. It’s late.”
His shoulders fall, an instant pout appearing on his weary face. If the bags under his eyes are any indication, he’s mere minutes from falling asleep.
“Yeah, I should head out,” I say, hoping it’ll help push him to listen to his mom. “It’s way past my bedtime. I think you and I need to practice so we can kick Whittaker from the leaderboard, though.”
Jonas yawns, hauling himself from the couch with a groan. “Yeah. We should team up next time.”
After ensuring Betty receives bedtime scratches behind her ear, he starts up the stairs to his room, dragging ass.
“Night, dude,” I call after him.
A moment later his bedroom door shuts, and I find myself alone with Whit—a position I’ve been dying to be in.
“Thanks for having me over tonight.”
“Jonas loves hanging out with you.”
A question of whether she enjoys it weighs on my mind.
“He’s a really cool kid. Although, having seen your enamel pin collection and your dance moves, I guess it should come as no surprise that he’s so great.”
She fiddles with the frayed hem of her shorts.
“I should clean up and get to bed.” Her eyes land on mine for half a heartbeat, and they’re hazy.
My heart writhes and twists in my chest. Whit tucks whatever it is she’s feeling behind the false wall of a half-hearted smile, moving to clean the candy and pizza shrapnel littering the coffee table.
“Let me help you.” I grab a handful of candy wrappers and follow her into the kitchen.
“Don’t worry about it. You have a long drive home.
I can deal with this mess.” She shies away from my proximity, taking the long way around the far end of the island to get back to the living room.
Our shared looks were full of longing all night, and now that we don’t have a kid interrupting any attempts at flirtation, she’s refusing to look at me. Talk about whiplash.
As I clean, while also following her like a lost puppy dog, I pretend not to notice how far she’s going out of her way to keep distance between us. Eventually, she’s skillfully herded me right to the front door. Betty could stand to take notes.
“Whit…I, uh…” I, uh, lose all train of thought.
She pulls the door open, fingers clenched around the handle, letting Betty run outside into the warm summer air.
“Thanks for tonight,” she says in a bizarrely professional, monotone voice, like she’s escorting me out of a job interview. Her green eyes look nearly black in the dim light, and they’re boring into my soul. “It was really fun.”
I want to tell her this was the best night I’ve had in a long time. And I want to ask her on a date. And I’d really love it if she’d let me kiss her goodnight.
“Tonight was—I mean, uh, I had a good…fun time. A good, fun time was had.” Okay, now form words into a sentence that doesn’t sound so fucking weird. “If you—no pressure—wanted a fun night…m-maybe we have another night?”
Oh, God. Am I having a stroke?
“I’m sure Jonas would love another fun night with you.”
“Would you?”
“Yeah, I would.” Her mouth twitches side to side. “Thanks for being a good friend. I don’t think you understand how much your friendship has done for me…and Jonas. It’s…thank you.”
“Always.”
Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she leans in, fills the thick air between us with a sugary aroma. Hope inflates my sunken chest. And her soft, plump lips brush a barely-there kiss against my cheek.
I think being Whit’s friend might just kill me.