“What was it like?” she asks, leaning forward.
It’s odd. I haven’t thought about that bistro much since I left France, but lately, it’s been sitting at the forefront of my mind. It feels good to finally let it out. “Honestly, it was nothing special. It was dark, and small, and only sat about fifteen people. But there was something so nice about it. They didn’t even have many options on the menu. Everything was simple, nonintrusive, and just what I needed after a long day of overanalyzing every single spice and herb on the planet.”
“Sounds nice,” says June with a soft smile that I want to swim in.
“Maybe I’ll get to take you there one day.” But shoot, I think I spooked her. The spell breaks, and she takes in a deep breath, looking around the table before standing up.
“Wow, when did it get to be so late? I’ve got to get to the bakery.” Suddenly, she’s the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, and she’s late for a very important date. And I know why. I just yanked her down in the water another inch, and she wasn’t ready for it.
Before she can walk away, though, I grab her hand and pull her to a stop and tug her down onto my lap. “Don’t do that,” I say, making her look at me.
“Do what?”
“Get weird on me again.”
She avoids my eyes by looking down at where her finger is running across my collarbone. “I’m not weird. You’re weird.”
I grin at her attempt at a burn and bend my head to catch her eyes. “I can’t help it, June. I’m trying to hold back, but it’s tough. I’ve been holding back from you since I was twelve. I don’t want to anymore.” I also really need her to stop doing that with her finger, because I’m trying to move slowly and respectfully with her, but my brain is trying to erase those words from my vocabulary.
June’s shoulders soften, and she slides her gaze to mine. She contemplates me for a second and then slowly bends forward to kiss me. It’s short. Her lips were barely on mine long enough for me to blink, but that kiss means more to me than any kiss I’ve ever had, because she initiated it.
I’m filled with the urge to go out and buy an important leather-bound journal complete with quill and ink so I can transcribe what just happened. November 15, June Broaden kissed me by her own accord. That’s the only thing I would ever write in that journal, because the memory deserves a monument all its own. It’s progress.
She’s smiling as she pulls away and then pokes me in my cheek where my dimple lives. “I’m trying. It’s going to take me longer, though, because I wasn’t expecting this, and I’ve been conditioning myself since I broke things off with Ben to believe that I can’t trust anyone.”
“I understand that.”
“Do you?” she asks, looking like she truly wants to know.
“I do.”
“Okay, good. Then don’t give up on me when I get weird.”
I clasp my arms around her waist. “I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“I promise, June.” I mean it. I’ll wait for her for as long as it takes.
She smiles and reaches up to smoosh my cheeks together. Not exactly the sexy turn I thought this conversation would take, but I can take one for the team if it means watching her smile.
“Stacy and I always do this after a serious conversation.” Ah. I see now.
I ask if she misses Stacy while my cheeks are still smooshed together, giving me a fish face.
She drops her hands. “So much. But I’m just trying not to think about it. Or call her a million times a day. I want to give her and Logan space to get acclimated in their new life.”
I laugh. “They’ve been together since junior high. How much acclimating do you think they really need?”
She laughs, too, and the sound lessens that weight that’s always on my shoulders. “You’re probably right.”
“Have you told her about us?”
“Are you going to be mad if I say no?”
“I’ll flip this table.”
“Then YEP. She knows everything.”
I shake my head and lean forward to kiss her cheek before picking her up and depositing her on the floor. “Tell Stacy. She’ll want to know.” Something tells me I’m not the only one June is worried will hurt her.
June and I don’t broach any serious topics again for the rest of the morning. She goes into her bathroom to shower and get ready for the day, and I make myself useful by snooping through the stack of papers on her counter. I notice that they are offers to buy Stacy’s half of the bakery.
My first thought is that I should add my name to the top. My second thought is to take that first thought and burn it to the ground. June doesn’t need me to help her run that bakery. She doesn’t need anyone’s help with it. I honestly don’t know why she’s entertaining offers when she should buy it herself.
But when she comes out of her room an hour later in a form-fitting, black, long-sleeve top, hair braided and draped over one shoulder, and tight jeans hugging her waist with holes down the legs that do more than hint at the soft tan skin living under them, I push the papers aside and decide we’ll talk about it later. She looks good. Better than good. This woman is a killer, and as I grab her jeans by the belt loops and tug her closer to me, I realize I’m dead.
I love her. I think I always have.
“June,” I say, dragging out her name to let her know I’m suspicious. “Why do you smell like me?”
She peeks up at me from under her long lashes and presses her lips together. She’s a kid who just got caught with a bar of chocolate smeared all over her face. “I was out of my bodywash, so I had to use yours?” She phrased it like a question, not a statement.
I shake my head at her. She used my bodywash.
She loves me.
Chapter 23 June
