Our gazes held for a moment, like we were both trying to figure out if we reallywerereading each other’s minds, and then she just gave a nod.
Something about the gesture felt almost nurturing.
Before I could process the kaleidoscope of feelings that single nod roused, Duffy slid her fingers between mine. The gesture was soft and quiet—the antithesis of her—and it made something in my chest pinch.
“You’re so into me it’s pathetic, Distefano,” I muttered, mostly because I didn’t know any other way to cover how disproportionately emotional her gesture made me feel.
“If I recall, we still haven’t gone on a second date, so me holding your hand right now is me just squeezing my friend’s fingers, right?” she teased. “For all you know, maybe I’m trying to engage you in a thumb war.”
“Have you seen the disparity in our hand size? You wouldn’t stand a chance in a thumb war, Duff,” I replied, grateful she was giving me the grace of unseriousness.
“That’s probably true, I’m just throwing out possibilities. My hand could also be cold and I’m using you for warmth, or I could be trying to distract you with a hand grab while I steal your wallet.”
“Or you’re holding my hand to remind me that I still need to take you out on that second date,” I said, because I didn’t want her to think our date was out of the picture. It was all I could think about, making sure we became something “official.”
Ironically, I wasn’t the only one thinking that.
Earlier that week, I ran into Bethany after practice, and she’d cornered me about Duffy. She’d gushed about how adorable we looked every time she saw a photo of us in the press—which made me feel like a total prick—and she even went so far as to suggest another date.
It’s autumn, Connor—you should totally whisk her away to Peterman’s. What’s more romantic than a date where you can pick pumpkins together and make firepit s’mores?
I could see her vision, the optics of the two of us strolling around the pumpkin patch hand in hand, but something told me that wasn’t Duffy’s style.
It seemed too…sweetly romantic for her.
And the last thing I wanted was a date that had management’s handprints on it.
But Bethany’s idea had givenmeanother date idea, one I was currently working on.
“You’re using your feminine wiles, aren’t you?” I teased.
“Yes, sir, you caught me, I am using my feminine hand wiles,” Duffy acknowledged with a grin.
“Regardless,” I said, my voice quiet and a little too hoarse for my liking. “Thank you.”
Her eyes met mine. “Anytime.”
—
The cookies.
I couldn’t stop smiling as my grandpa bit into his fifth cookie.
He was wearing his favorite Coyotes T-shirt and the old fishing hat that he’d been wearing every day for the past five years. He’d always thought the hat was funny (it had lures glued all over it), but it just reminded me of so many Saturday mornings spent at the lake with him—the kind of Saturday mornings we’d never get again.
“I told the lady I didn’t like raisins, but she kept giving me raisin cookies,” my grandpa said, looking disgusted. He’d said ita few times, and I had no idea who he was talking about or what era of his life he was remembering, but Duffy was grinning like it was perfectly clear to her.
“You just wanted chocolate chips, though, right?” she said.
“Right,” he said, nodding, his smirk morphing into a smile.
It was after three o’clock, and I could tell he was getting tired. We’d taken him to lunch downstairs, pushed his wheelchair around the rose gardens, let him feed the birds, and now it was probably time to take off.
He usually got irritable and foggier as the day wore on, so leaving while things were good was for the best.
But I didn’t want to go.
It was selfish, honestly, because the day had been fucking perfect. I couldn’t see any spark in his eye, any recognition that told me he understood who Duffy even was, but the old guy was having a great time.