Practice Makes Perfect (When in Rome, #2)(46)

We’re both laughing and she’s crying and I’ve never experienced this kind of emotion with anyone else. It’s so fragile and vulnerable. I feel guilty that I’m the one who gets to experience it with her. And yet I’m greedy for it at the same time.

“Can I see it now?” I ask, dropping my gaze to her wrist. But there’s nothing there.

She nods and adjusts a little away for me in her seat, gathering all of her long hair and tugging it over one shoulder. And then my breath catches as she tugs the neck of her shirt down, revealing her beautiful bare shoulder.

Well…her bare shoulder inked with the cutest small tattoo I’ve ever seen.

“I got a book,” she says, sounding like she just won a million dollars. “I was going to get the flowers we talked about, but then I realized flowers were always my mom’s dream—not especially mine even though following it has worked out nicely for me.” She pauses and I admire the fine lines of a book, lying open with its pages fluttering like the wind caught them. “I wanted something special to me. Just me.”

I smile at the sight of Annie poised with her shoulder presented to me—the profile silhouetted by the streetlamp outside the truck. And her soft mouth curled up in a gentle smile. I’ll never forget this moment. And before I can stop myself, I tip forward and kiss the skin just beside her tattoo. Annie sucks in a breath, and I memorize the feel of her skin against my lips, as smooth and blazing as a shot of expensive whiskey. I want to kiss every square inch of her. I want to lick the base of her shoulder. I want to kiss my way up the side of her throat all the way until I find her mouth, and there I’ll linger, caressing so thoroughly that our lips sting afterward.

If I had it my way, I’d pull this warm, sweet, tenderhearted woman over onto my lap and show her just how in awe of her I am. I would worship her body.

Instead, I pull away and gently pull her shirt back up over her shoulder. “It’s perfect, Annie.”





CHAPTER NINETEEN


Will





I’m at the farmers market today and I’m not happy about it for two reasons. First, there are so many people. These sorts of places—open-air venues with endless numbers of entrances and exits—are my nightmare. Tickets aren’t required, so I have no way of checking everyone in attendance to make sure none of Amelia’s stalkers will be here. But I have their faces memorized and survey everywhere we go for any signs of them. She’s wearing a hat and sunglasses, as is Noah, but obsessive fans will still know it’s her. In fact, there’s a man with a backpack eight feet to her right. He’s noticed her three times now. Even if no one is here to do her harm, these sorts of crowded locations can turn into a fan mob in a second if we’re not careful.

I don’t like the guy with the backpack.

The second reason I don’t want to be here is because Annie is working a booth for her flower shop. It’s the whole reason Amelia wanted to come out and support her, and that woman is the distraction I don’t need today. And I mean that in the current literal sense, and the metaphorical long-term sense.

I’m using all of my willpower to focus on my job right now, and it’s torture. Just like every second when Annie is anywhere near me lately. I’ve only seen her once since she got her tattoo. Amelia and I were in town, and while she was visiting with Noah at The Pie Shop, I dipped into the flower shop next door to see Annie. Her eyes lit up when she realized it was me, and now I’m afraid I’ll replay that image on a loop for the rest of my life.

I’m trying to put her in the same category as all the other women who have moved like water through my life. But it’s not working. She’s quickly becoming special to me—like something rare and precious you want to put in a safe place so you never lose it.

That’s why I can’t look at her today. My eyes need to stay focused and alert to my surroundings.

And then Annie cackles from her booth, and like a damn siren call in the night, I turn right to her. My gaze lingers, and I don’t understand how just the sight of someone can feel so good. God, she’s beautiful. No overalls today—which is oddly disappointing—but instead she’s wearing a pair of distressed jeans and a white T-shirt with her shop logo on it. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail, and a few little strands have fallen out and cling to her neck because of how humid it is out here.

She looks so damn good.

And sounds good.

And for the first time in a long time, I wish I weren’t stuck here doing my job. I want to be over there with her. I want to know how her day has gone and if she’s having fun. How her tattoo is healing and if she remembered to put lotion on it today. I want to touch my lips to her glimmering neck and taste the sweat from her skin. But I can’t—not only because that’s not the kind of relationship we have but because I’m on duty right now.

But before I look away and mentally commit to not looking at her again the rest of the afternoon, I take out my phone and snap a picture of her laughing behind her booth. I’m collecting all these photos and will send them to her when I leave town because the woman deserves to have pretty pictures of herself. I’ll delete them from my phone once I send them to her. I will. I really will. There would be no reason for me to keep them after I leave because I’ll move on and get back to life as normal. I won’t let myself miss Annie. I won’t.