The Grump I Despise (When In Waverly 3)

Colby walks me out to his truck. I’ve always thought his truck was a surprising choice for him. I know it shouldn’t be—we live in Texas, after all. But he’s such a practical guy, so I’ve always pictured him driving something to match that, like a Subaru or something. But now that I’m looking at him, I don’t know if he would fit in a Subaru.

I climb in and glance around the truck, and my eyes land on an adorable wicker basket on the backseat. I lift the lid to peek inside. Be still my beating heart, the man packed a picnic for us. That’s adorable. One million points for Colby.

He climbs into the driver’s seat, slams the lid of the basket shut, and says, “No peeking!” I jump and squeal as I turn back around in my seat. I adjust the vents so the warm air is blowing directly on me.

“Colbster, did you do that all by yourself?” I ask in a dreamy voice. No man has ever put this much effort into a date with me. All I’ve ever gotten is dinner and a movie. Pretty lackluster. But Colby made me food with his own two hands, bought a cute basket, and found a location. Somebody get a mop because I’m a puddle!

“Yeah.” He clears his throat and pulls out onto the street.

“You do have a heart,” I joke. “And it might even be beating in there.” I poke him in the chest right where his beating heart is hiding.

“Hush, lady,” he laughs.

He drives us to a secluded spot by the small lake outside of town, and we sit on a dock with a colorful quilt underneath us with our picnic. It’s a little chilly outside, but it’s not too bad. I wrap myself tightly in the sweater I brought with me.

The food he packed is simple: fruit, club sandwiches, my favorite Zapp’s chips (I don’t know how he knew that), and chocolate chip cookies. It’s all delicious. I’m not hard to please when it comes to food, and I think after watching me eat peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for lunch every day for a month, he knows that.

I shove a huge bite of cookie in my mouth right before he asks, “Do you still have cancer treatments that you have to do?”

I chew my cookie and then say, “No, just a lot of check-ups with my oncologist. At first, they were every month, but now they’re every three months. If I stay in remission, they’ll change to every six months, and then eventually, just once a year as long as I’m in the clear.”

“So, you’re healthy right now?” I don’t know why, but I can tell he cares by the way he’s asking. There’s actual concern in his voice and eyes. It’s not a panicked concern like it is with my parents. I don’t feel like I’m going to crush him if my answer isn’t what he’s hoping to hear. But still, I know he cares about me and wants me to be okay. It’s comforting to have someone who knows about my history and not treat me like a cracked porcelain doll. He doesn’t look at me with fear in his eyes. All I see there is hope and something soft and sweet.

“Yeah, I am,” I say. He lets out a deep breath and wraps his arm around my shoulders. He pulls me close to his side and kisses the top of my head. I gasp in surprise, but he takes it the wrong way. He takes his arm from me and apologizes.

I grab his arm to put it back where it was and say, “Don’t be sorry.” I turn my head to look up at him, and he’s staring at the water as a small smile spreads across his face. I lean my head back against his shoulder, and we both take a deep breath.

“Is it weird for you, too?” I ask.

“Is what weird?” he asks in a deep, growly voice.

“Liking me.”

“Are you saying you like me?”

“No!” I answer in a mock outraged voice. But I’m laughing, so it’s not even remotely believable. I’m on a date with him, so it must be obvious I like him at least a little.

He scoops me up in his arms and plops me back down in his lap. His face is an inch from mine, and he cradles my face in between his hands. “You do like me,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Okay, maybe just a little bit.” He doesn’t wait another moment. He brings his lips down to meet mine. It’s slow and sweet, both of us taking time to learn from each other. I bring my hands up to his shoulders and turn my body to face him. He wraps both of his arms around my waist and crushes me against his warm, solid chest.

We pull our lips apart, only for a moment, gazing into each other’s eyes, catching our breath, before crashing them back together again. This time, his kiss is explorative, like he’s breathing me in and can’t get enough.

Eventually, he pulls away. I want to follow and keep his lips locked on mine, but I don’t. “We should stop before I’m tempted to run my hands all over you,” he says. I can feel the blush creep up my neck and cheeks, and he laughs. I scoot off his lap and sit beside him again, resting my head on his arm.

“Oh, yeah right,” I say, trying to sound calmer than I feel, like the thought of him being vastly out of my league doesn’t hurt.

“I’m serious. You’re beautiful and tempting.”

“Maybe my face could be considered attractive,” I say, trying not to sound braggadocious. I’m not so self-deprecating that I can’t admit I have a nice face.

“All of you is attractive,” he says. His eyes graze over every inch of me, stealing the very breath from my lungs. He plants a kiss on my nose. “You are as close to perfection as it gets.” He hops up and starts to gather up our mess, and I sit staring at the lake, wondering if the last five minutes were all just some fantastical dream. Am I about to wake up in my bed, feeling disappointed? I pinch my arm as hard as I can, and yep, that hurts. It definitely wasn’t a dream.