We both take a beat, eyes meeting, then we lunge at the same time. With a shriek, I smear frosting across his lips while he stuffs sticky cake into my face. We’re laughing and ducking and dodging, and for a second, this all feels normal. Nice, even. Until he drops his cake and lifts his arms, apparently in surrender.
I assume he’s giving up, so I move in for the kill, but he’s way too quick. In a flash, he captures my wrist, fingers gently closing in around my bones. I lift my gaze, and his eyes lock on mine. Steady and heated. Then, with his opposite thumb, he slowly brushes the frosting from my knuckle.
Tinder ignites throughout my chest.
This doesn’t feel like it's for the video.
Bridger stills for a long moment, then his eyes drop to my mouth. And before I can stop myself, my tongue slides out to lick my lips.
He sucks in a breath, then releases me instantly, stepping back like he’s been burned. Grabbing a napkin, he swipes frosting from his mouth, then he hands me a fresh napkin, too.
Guess we’re done with cake.
“Aw, come on, guys,” Dex groans. “You were at a nine out of ten, there. If I could give you just a few notes?—”
“I think we got plenty of footage,” Bridger says.
“You got what you need, right?” I skim my focus over to Sayla, a silent plea.
She lowers her phone, studying us both for a beat. “Yep. That’ll work.”
By now, my heart’s throbbing in my ears so hard, I almost miss the ringing across the stage.
“Wait! Turn off the music!” I blurt. “Is that my phone?”
We all pause long enough to hear the ringtone sound again. It’s coming from my bag on top of the speaker. Without another word, Bridger crosses the room, rescues my bag, and jogs it back to me.
Joanna Parker is calling. From Havenwood.
“Hi? Hello?” I push a stray strand off my face. “I’m sorry. Hi, Joanna. Wait.Isthis Joanna?”
Smooth, Loren. Real smooth.
“This is. Am I speaking with Loren Cane?”
“Yes! I emailed you about my dad, Harlan Cane? I’m his daughter.”
“I know. I received your message.”
I exhale. Step One, at least. Contact made. “Thank you so much for calling to follow up.”
“My pleasure. Your father sounds like a wonderful person. Your mother too. My apologies for your loss.”
“Thank you. Yes. They were. I mean, he is.” My throat constricts, but I press out my question. “Did Noah happen to talk to you yesterday?”
“We spoke, yes,” she says. “He told me about your family and shared his professional opinion on your father’s needs. Then this morning I talked to a Bridger Adams.”
My eyes find Bridger. He’s moved several yards away now, giving me space. Still, his attention is on me—shoulders squared, torso tense. Like he’s prepared to jump in if I need him.
“Bridger called you?”
“Now, you should know, we don’t normally discuss potential residents or their status with non-family members,” Joanna says, "but Mr. Adams told me you two were getting married?”
“We are, yes. I mean, we did. We’re married.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. Again. But about my father?”