Page 13 of Careless Hope
“People here sure love their gossip.” I felt a flush creep up my cheeks, not just from the wine warming my belly. “It really wasn’t anything special. He was just being . . . Walker. Friendly as ever. I mean, I haven’t seen him in a million years, I was surprised he even remembered me.”
“Uh-huh,” Sutton drawled, unconvinced. “And when he flashed those baby blues and that charming smile? He may be my cousin, but I know how he operates.”
“Okay, fine,” I conceded, a giggle escaping me despite my attempts at nonchalance. “I may have always had a bit of a crush on him. He’s got that whole rugged cowboy look down pat. And obviously the charm.”
“He sure does,” Eryn agreed with a knowing nod.
“But he’s just another friend in town,” I added quickly, trying to brush off the implication that it could be anything more. Friends were safe. Friends didn’t complicate your life when you were trying to establish a professional reputation in a place where everyone remembered the time you threw up on stage at the fifth grade talent show.
I forged ahead. “I’m serious. I might have thought he was dreamy in high school, but this is not then. And I know how he operates, too,” I added, with a knowing look at Sutton. “But I admit it was a nice conversation. It felt good reconnecting. Or, I guess, connecting, as friends, in a way we hadn’t done as kids.”
Their knowing looks told me they weren’t buying it, but mercifully, they let the subject drop. We continued unpacking, the comfortable rhythm of our movements filling the spaces of my too-quiet house.
As I sipped my third and final glass of wine, a warmth that had little to do with alcohol spread through me. Here, with Sutton and Eryn, I could be just Caroline—flaws, fears, and all. They didn’t expect Dr. Cressley; they just wanted their friend.
“Thank you, guys,” I murmured, more to my glass than to them. “For being here. For listening.”
“Always,” Eryn replied, her amber gaze softening.
“Besides,” Sutton piped in, wagging a finger playfully, “who else is going to teach you the art of seduction in a town where the dating pool is shallower than a kiddie splash pad?”
“Is there an art to it then?” I asked, only half joking. The other half of me genuinely wanted to know.
“More like a science,” Eryn mused, a twinkle in her eye. “But don’t worry, we’ve got enough collective wisdom to write a thesis on it.”
“Or at least a very detailed guidebook,” Sutton added with a laugh.
I couldn’t help but join in, the sound mingling with theirs, and the giddy feeling from the wine taking over my body. For the first time since moving back, I felt the stirrings of something more than just responsibility and legacy. I felt happy. Hopeful.
Maybe, just maybe, it could lead to a little romance as well. After all, wasn’t there a saying about all work and no play? So maybe I needed to learn how to play. Maybe that wasn’t normal, but who cares, as long as I was successful at it?
A cardboard box crinkled under my hands as I lifted the flaps, revealing a trove of college textbooks—remnants of a past life where flirting was an abstract concept buried in psychology chapters, not a skill I needed to master. Flirting was on the curriculum now. Conversation. Kissing. Sex. If I approached these topics like the subjects in these books, I had no doubt I’d master them. Or at least get a passable B.
It was, perhaps, the smartest idea I’d ever had. Or maybe it was just the wine talking. Either way, I was committing.
“Okay, so let’s say hypothetically,” I began, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and casting a glance between my twofriends, “I wanted to . . . you know, get someone’s attention. How would I even start?”
Eryn leaned back, her amber eyes gleaming like two drops of honey under the overhead lights. “First off, eye contact. It’s all about the eyes, Caroline. You’ve got beautiful green ones, use them. Think smolder, not medical examination.”
Sutton chuckled, nudging a half-unpacked photo frame with her foot. “And body language. Don’t cross your arms; it’s like putting up a ‘Closed for Business’ sign on your chest.”
I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of years spent buried in books and long shifts lifting slightly off my shoulders. “You know, I just started reading a romance novel and it’s given me inspiration. I’ve developed this silly fantasy,” I confessed, cheeks warming with the admission. “A sort of . . . steamy encounter with a man who looks at me like I’m the only woman in the world.”
“Steamy, hmm?” Sutton teased, her eyes dancing with delight. “Well, why not? Fantasies are healthy. Plus, they’re a good place to start when you’re figuring out what you want in reality. Or what you don’t want.”
“Exactly,” Eryn chimed in, her eyes gleaming with encouragement. “And there’s nothing wrong with wanting to feel desired. It’s human nature.”
“Right,” I murmured, emboldened by their support. “But how do I even begin? Flirting feels like a foreign language to me.”
“Well, desire needs to build from something. A look. A conversation. A touch. Flirting might be a step to it, but it’s not a guarantee. There’s that X factor to it, too.”
“X factor?”
“Chemistry. A vibe. A spark. Flirting is a great step, but without those things, that’s all it is. Which isn’t a bad thing! Innocent flirting is fun and will getyou practice.”
“Think of it this way,” Sutton began, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Flirting is just a playful conversation. It’s about giving a compliment here, a light touch on the arm there, and lots of eye contact.”
“Right. Eye contact,” I repeated, as if committing it to memory.
