Hot and Bothered(88)

                She smiled at him. Not her neat, tight, public smile, but a big, crooked smile, just for him.

                It was easy after that. Easy to be with her, to listen as she told him she thought she’d get trained and maybe even certified in life coaching so she could help her clients do more of what she’d helped him do, to find his way beyond his image. He found it easy to fill her in on what he’d decided, where he would go from here. He’d do more music lessons, try to make that pay the bills. He’d play music, but just blues, no more wedding gigs, no more reunion   tours once this one was over and the money banked to help his father with the move to New York. That should leave a sizable portion in savings, so even though being a music teacher wasn’t the most lucrative job on Earth, he’d be able to support himself more than comfortably.

                “Myself and—” He looked at her levelly. “Whoever else wants to tie their fortunes to mine.”

                “I might know someone who does.”

                “She might be a very welcome addition to my household.”

                “She might be very happy about that arrangement.”

                Her hands gripped his tight, and even though their words were casual, her eyes told him everything he needed to know. That there was nothing casual in her feelings, as there was nothing casual in his.

                When they’d finished eating and paid their check, he said, “My turn, right?”

                “Right,” she said. “But you’re overdressed for my date.”

                “I don’t have anything else to wear.”

                “Come with me.”

                She made him walk with her back to her apartment and told him to wait while she ran upstairs. When she re-emerged into the lobby, she handed him a shopping bag from the department store where they’d made most of his clothing purchases the first day they’d shopped together.

                He opened the bag and pulled out his old clothes—his ripped jeans, his grubby gray T-shirt, his bomber jacket.

                “I was going to toss them,” she said. “But I couldn’t make myself do it. I loved them too much. I kept taking them out and...” She blushed. “I smelled them.”

                “Oh, yikes,” he said. “Sorry about that.”

                “No,” she said. “They smelled good. Like you. Leather and denim and soap and deodorant and okay, maybe a little bit of sweat.”

                “The sweat was because of the way you were looking at me in the mirror at the barbershop,” he told her, which was totally true. “It’s a miracle I didn’t go up in flames.”

                “It’s a miracle I didn’t,” she said.

                “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

                “On a messy date,” she said.

                And away they went, for ice cream that dripped on her dress, sticky cinnamon buns she had to lick off his fingers, and later, all the mess either of them could want, in Haven’s apartment, which could use a cleaning, certainly, but neither of them could care less.