Like You Love Me (Honey Creek 1)

The longer I go without looking at her, the more pointed her gaze gets. And the deeper she digs, trying to work out what’s really going on, the more amused I become.

I lift my mug and take a sip.

“Are you planning on having kids soon?” Dottie asks.

The coffee goes down the wrong tube. I leap back from the desk before I choke all over the notes about a cat named Scotch.

Struggling to catch my breath, I pound on my chest with the palm of my hand.

“Is that a no?” Dottie asks, tongue-in-cheek.

I clear my throat. My face heats up, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the lack of oxygen or from Dottie’s question.

I’ve always wanted kids—two, to be exact. But I’ve never considered having them. Not even with Jessica. Despite my being engaged to her, life never got that real. Never on that kind of level. It didn’t strike me as odd until now.

Because the idea of having kids with Sophie doesn’t seem that strange.

My weight shifts from one foot to the other as I conjure up images of Sophie’s belly, swollen. Of a little girl running around with her mother’s mischievous smile. Of a little boy carrying in snakes and lizards for me to inspect.

“Or maybe that’s a yes,” Dottie teases.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “We got married yesterday. Give us some time.”

“Oh, you’ve had time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask as I watch her spray down the counter with a cleaning agent.

She shrugs. “Nothing, really. Just that I’ve envisioned the two of you getting married since you were little kids.”

“You did not.”

“You’re damn right I did.” She takes a cloth and wipes the spray away. “And I also saw the way your eyes lit up when she walked in here and you seemingly forgot I was standing beside you.”

My skin itches as a vulnerability takes over. Her gaze is knowing as she looks at me, and it makes me feel exposed.

“You’re crazy,” I say in an attempt at covering myself again.

“Oh, handsome. It’s like you forgot it’s me you’re talking to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She tosses the rag on the counter behind us. The movement causes the scent of lemons and bleach to waft through the room. Memories of my grandmother strike me out of the blue, and of how her living room always smelled exactly like this.

My heart twists around a hollow spot deep inside my chest.

“It means that I’ve been a vet tech for longer than you’ve been alive,” she says. “And I know a thing or two about pheromones.”

“We aren’t having this conversation.”

Her laugh is full and bright. “You can’t hide attraction from an expert in the field.”

“You’re right,” I say, grabbing my coffee again. “That’s the exact methodology I used to determine that you have a thing for Jake. Jack. What was the floor mat salesman’s name?”

“Joe? You’re out of your mind, Holden.”

I wink. “It’s okay. I won’t tell.”

Her jaw falls to the floor, a wicked glimmer in her eye. She tosses her long braid off her shoulder as she prepares a comeback that I’m sure will have my jaw hitting the hardwood. But before she can do that, the chimes on the back door—the one no one uses—ring.

“Now that’s a sight for sore eyes,” Pap says.

His smile is bright and white, much like the color of his hair these days. Of course, they could just look snowier thanks to the apparent tan he got because of the Florida sun. His navy-blue scrubs complement his fit frame, and the running shoes on his feet are worn. Probably from running. Because he’s still a three-miler-a-day, even at his age.

All bickering is forgotten as I take in my grandfather.

“Hey, Pap,” I say, walking toward him.

He pulls me into a deep, unabashed hug. Despite the fact that I’m a good five inches taller than him, I still feel like a little boy in comparison. My heart fills with emotions I can’t quite name. And when he leans back and looks straight into my eyes, I hold my breath.

It’s funny how you can forget what people really mean to you until you’re standing face-to-face with them. I’ve always loved my grandfather. I have the best memories of spending time with him, growing up. No matter where we went or who we encountered, everyone loved him. Respected him. Talked to and about him as if he were a legend.

That’s what I wanted, growing up. Even as my dad would make fun of the hick town and hillbilly people, calling them backwoods and simpletons, I didn’t care. I wanted that. I liked it. While I remembered those things as I went through college and forged my own way, I think it all got a little blurry, because right now, I remember. Vividly. And those feelings I had as a ten-year-old kid are the same emotions flowing through me now.