Excerpt:
Laurel and Dalton share the heartache of watching a family member succumb to dementia.
I prop my forearms on the railing. “It’s hard. Wish I could say you’ll get used to it, but I haven’t yet.”
She grips my arm, her eyes glittering with threatening tears. “How do you do it, Dalton? How do you watch someone you love just—disappear?”
I search my brain for a comforting answer, but nothing comes. My gut nudges me to enfold her in my arms, but it’s too soon for such an intimate gesture. Besides, our run in the late-summer heat has left me sticky and no doubt pungent.
I lay my hand over hers. “I guess you just show up. Remember, she loves you, even if she forgets.”
“Yeah.” She blows out a long, windy sigh, and her gaze slides away, toward the glassy green below. “Could I call you sometime? You know, to talk about this stuff?”
I close my eyes. Yessss. My inner victory dance complete, I answer, “Of course. Let’s have a coffee after running club on Saturday.”
“That’d be great.” Her bright smile lights up something deep in my chest.
Ten minutes later, we trot to a stop outside my place. As I wipe my sopping head with a bandana, another opening springs to mind. “Hey, there’s a 10K race in Springfield a week from Sunday. Wanna join us?”
“I’ll think about it.” She flashes a grin. “I haven’t been training regularly.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’re in great shape.”
She bats her long, pale lashes. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”
Buoyed by her flirtation, I finally work up the nerve to ask her the question that’s been nagging me since we met. “Can I ask a personal question, Laurel?”
She waits, eyebrows raised.
“How old are you?”
Something about her narrowed gaze suggests she’s been wondering too. “Thirty-one.” She digs the toe of her running shoe into the dust. “Where does the time go, right? And you?”
“Thirty-nine.”
“For the first time?” She winks.
I raise three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
Her gaze slides down my body and back up, leaving a sudden tingly chill, as if she somehow peeled away my damp running clothes to peer beneath.
She nods. “You’ve held up well, Gramps.”
I can’t decide whether to wince or laugh. Before I can formulate a snappy comeback, she steps in close—alarmingly, deliciously close—and kisses my cheek, her lips a sweet whisper of pleasure on my skin. She smells like sweaty sunshine.
“I’d better book it. Maxie’s waiting. Thank you, Dalton. For the run, and the advice, and the job, and—just, thanks.” She lopes away, calling over her shoulder, “See you Saturday.”
I stroke the lingering warmth on my skin. When she disappears around the corner, I turn toward home, grinning like a happy idiot.
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