“I’ll leave you alone.” I spin on my heel to make a hasty retreat, embarrassment at being caught talking to myself rolling off my back in waves.
“Not so fast,” Candace snaps, and I freeze, turning slowly to look at her. She pats the bench. “Come, sit a spell.”
Here’s the thing. I know I don’t have to do what she’s telling me to do. I could make an excuse, or I could leave. But there’s something about this woman. A sternness to her. I don’t dare cross her. I don’t want to get on her bad side.
And yeah, okay. Fine. I know I said I would lock down any and all emotions about Holland that weren’t related to golf for the next week, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about his relationship with this sourpuss older lady. What gives with them? The golden boy golfer and the spinster? Something isn’t adding up.
“Hurry up. I don’t have all day,” Candace snaps, and my feet propel me forward.
I take a seat on the stone bench, leaving a foot of space between the two of us.
“Now.” She folds her hands primly in her lap. She’s wearing a worn pair of baby-blue slacks and a knit sweater with a pale-orange-and-white color-blocked pattern. Her gray hair is cut in a short bob. It’s stick straight and tucked neatly behind her ears. She doesn’t smile at me. She glares down her nose. “Now,” she says again. “You’re going to tell me what your intentions are with Holland.”
I angle my body so I’m facing her. “My intentions?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I…I don’t have any intentions with Holland.”
Don’t you?
I don’t. That’s what I tell the voice in my head. At least…I don’t think I do. I didn’t. But then he took care of me. And he left me that note. And then there was the pinky tangling. My inner thoughts are a jumbled, tangled mess. It’s like a badly kept strand of Christmas tree lights up in here.
“That’s a lie,” Candace says flatly. “I saw you.”
“You…saw me?” I arch a brow.
“Both of you. Together. This morning.” Her scowl deepens. “In his car,” she adds. “In a compromising position.”
I hold up my hands, more defensive than the Chicago Bears in the Ditka era. “That wasn’t what it looked like.”
Also, crap. If Candace saw us, who else did? None of the producers said anything, but that doesn’t mean word isn’t spreading around town about Holland and me spending the night together.Nottogether, together. Obviously.
“Not what it looked like?” Candace sniffs. “It looked like you were canoodling.”
I shake my head. “I promise you we weren’t.”
“I know what I saw,” she says staunchly. “You were sitting in that boy’s lap.” She smacks the last syllable of the word so it makes a popping sound, and I flinch. She leans in and points her finger at my chest. “And there was staring involved.”
I shift on this uncomfortable bench. So much for my fresh air. The oxygen around me is being stolen by this crotchety old lady.
“Staring?” I say weakly.
“Meaningful staring,” she accuses. “Looking into each other’s eyes and seeing into the depths of each other’s souls!”
Oh, for crying out loud.
“You got all that from watching us in Holland’s car this morning?” I’m still playing defense here. I can’t help it. At the same time, I can’t help the way my heart starts beating because she’s totally calling me out on feelings I was trying to ignore.
Therewassoul staring.
I was trying to convince myself I was imagining it, but now I have proof by way of Candace Patchcab.
She taps the side of her nose. “I’m very astute. Don’t like to be told otherwise. And”—she points at me again—“I won’t be lied to. You can’t tell me I’m wrong.”
She arches her brows and waits on me to dispute her. But Candace isn’t wrong. I felt something new for Holland in the car this morning. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself it was the hangover from last night. But when he looked at me and I looked at him, something zippered through me, and it felt a lot like desire. Like interest. Like I wanted to talk more about our families and his roofless tree fort. Like I wanted to open up to him about my past and my dreams for the future.
Like I wanted to lean forward and brush my lips across his.
