15. Tessa
Chapter fifteen
Tessa
“I swear you’re taking random streets just to throw me off,” I laugh. We’ve been in the car for about twenty minutes, and each time I think I know where we’re going, he takes an unexpected turn.
He’s driving with one hand, his other arm resting on the center console between us, looking every bit as handsome as I remember.
Like me, he’s dressed nicely without it being over-the-top.
He’s wearing beige Chino shorts that hit right at his knee, a black short-sleeve button-up, and that damn baseball hat.
“Now, why would I do that?” His tone is light and teasing, a smile spreading across his face as he looks at me.
I know it’s not a question to be answered, but I do it anyway. “Because I’ve lived here forever, and you know I’ll figure it out eventually,” I snap back playfully.
The light in front of us turns yellow, and he slows to a stop just as it switches to red. His eyes trail over my body, lingering on my thighs before they flick back up to meet mine. “Who says you haven’t already guessed it?” he asks, a smirk tugging at his lips.
My head turns away from him as I glance out the window, running through the few places I’ve rambled off as possible locations.
My first guess was that he’s taking me to Blue Ridge Winery, but we’re nowhere near there.
I’ve rattled off a restaurant or two, but that was before I noticed the small cooler sitting in the back seat.
The only other place that makes sense is…
The botanical gardens.
I haven’t been since I was a teenager. Not since high school, when I first met Ryan. I can only imagine how much the place has likely changed since then, but I also wonder if it’ll look the same, like no time has passed. It seems unfair how the world can appear the same yet feel so different.
Warmth spreads through my body as his hand settles on my thigh on top of the skirt of my dress, his fingertips grazing my bare skin just past the hem, but he’s focused on the road as the light turns green. Clearing my throat, I ask, “How was your week at work?”
He hums, his hand squeezing my thigh. Chuckling, he says, “I could say it was slow, but the crew would be pissed if they found out.” And he’s not wrong.
Anyone who works as a first responder or a health care provider seems to hate any mention of things being slow, as if the mere mention will conjure up insanity and break the dry spell.
Ryan used to curse and groan anytime I asked him if they were having a slow day, insisting those words needed to be banned from my vocabulary.
“Yeah, definitely don’t say that,” I laugh.
“It’s just a stark contrast to how things were in the city.” He falls silent beside me, green eyes scanning the road ahead.
I’m almost positive he’s taking me to the gardens, but I’d much rather have an actual conversation with him than keep guessing the location. “Is that why you moved here? Because you knew work would be—”
“Don’t say it,” he warns playfully.
“Less hectic,” I finish, choosing my wording carefully.
His palm is still resting on my leg, his fingers dipped just enough toward my inner thigh that I’m having to consciously ignore the heat building in my stomach and between my legs despite the layer of fabric separating his touch from my skin.
The touch alone isn’t sexual. He isn’t grazing his fingers along the inside of my thigh or slowly inching closer, but it’s him.
I think part of me has been worried that the night we spent together was a fluke, that we would finally go on this date and realize the chemistry between us was simply a side effect of the alcohol and the environment.
But if anything, it’s proving the opposite.
“That’s for sure part of it. I always felt alone before, and I know that sounds fuckin’ stupid considering there were tens of thousands of people who lived in the city, but I never felt like I had anyone.
” He gives my thigh a gentle squeeze before he continues.
“I knew I needed to make a change if I wanted to stay in this career, and it just made sense to move here. My brother lives here, and the guys at the station welcomed me in and made me part of their family without hesitation.”
A smile spreads across my face when I think of the few people I know who work for the Hartridge Fire Department, Blair Kinsley being one of them.
We were in high school together, and even though we’ve never been close friends, our paths have crossed a few times.
She comes from a family of law enforcement, and her brother was an officer with the P.D. when Ryan was there.
It’s fairly common for families, or at least siblings, to follow the same career path in a small town.
Usually, if one person is in law enforcement, the others do something similar, like the Mercer family.
Tom Mercer is retired now, but he used to be an officer, and one of his sons, Zack, was Ryan’s partner before the accident.
Zack left shortly after the accident and moved to a town in Southern California called Haven Beach.
The only time he’s been back to Hartridge since was for my son’s fifth birthday, just before the start of the school year.
He’s no longer an officer, but he seems content with his job as Head of Hotel Security for the Elysian Suites.
“Do you still feel like you’re alone?” I ask, needing his answer more than I should. I have no business hoping he’ll say he no longer feels alone and that it’s, at least in part, because of me.
His hand leaves my thigh, and I immediately miss its warmth. Despite how desperate it might make me seem, I want to grab it and put it back. Instead, his hand finds mine and intertwines our fingers, squeezing gently.
“Not anymore,” he murmurs, his voice low as he glances over at me, and I look away as heat rises to my cheeks. It’s what I was hoping he would say, and yet it still has butterflies fluttering in my stomach as my skin prickles with awareness.
“We barely know each other.” The words fly from my mouth as though he’s unaware of just how little time has passed since we met.
Part of me is expecting him to laugh or tease me for my outburst, but he simply gives my hand a gentle squeeze as he says, “We’ve got all the time in the world to get to know each other better, but sometimes, you get a gut feeling about something and you’ve just gotta trust it and see what happens. ”
His hand in mine suddenly feels heavier, more secure.
Silence fills the cab of his truck, but it’s not awkward or uncomfortable.
His playlist is a mix of country, pop, and punk rock music, and he keeps his voice low as he sings along to the current song.
As I anticipated, we pull into the parking lot of the botanical gardens a few minutes later, and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.
“I knew it,” I chime, quickly unbuckling my seat belt and reaching for the door handle as my body floods with excitement.
He reaches across and settles his hand on mine as he says, “Not a chance, darlin’.
Wait for me.” He rushes to climb out of the truck and walks around the hood to my side.
Opening the passenger door, he holds his hand out for me.
A smile brightens his face as I roll my eyes and slide my hand into his, letting him help me out of the truck.
“I’m perfectly capable of opening my own door.” The words come out a little harsher than I mean them to, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“What kind of date would I be if I didn’t open doors for you?”
I can’t tell if he’s being serious or just teasing me, so I don’t answer.
Our fingers lace together as we walk toward the entrance, leaving the cooler and blanket in the backseat of his truck.
Holding hands is such a trivial gesture in the grand scheme of things, but it still has a flutter of butterflies making a home in my stomach.
The garden is as beautiful and vibrant as I remember, surrounded by tall, lush trees.
Various trails wind throughout the place, intersecting as guests are guided to different areas through a wide range of plants and flowers.
We wander through the first area for a few minutes as he points out a few flowers that seem better suited to an alien planet than they do here, and I’m surprised by how easy things are between us.
Even while talking about something as boring as plants, I find myself hanging on every word he says.
His eyes, just as vibrantly green as the garden surrounding us, crinkle at the sides as he reads off the posted information about the flowers we pass.
Logan steps in closer to me as a small group walks past us, his hands clutching my waist. His fingertips press lightly into my hips through the soft fabric of my dress, and it’s like he’s fighting against the desire to be as close to me as possible.
A smirk tugs at the corner of my lips as I turn around, his hands sliding to my lower back. “You don’t need an excuse to be close to me,” I tease.