She repeats it phonetically, and her gaze lands on a now blushing Hilary.
“Of course it is. Thanks, Larry. Or should I say, linda?”
“Thanks for carrying it,” Hilary murmurs, still not quite meeting my eyes.
Yeah, I definitely don’t like that.
Something tight pulls in my chest, sharp and unexpected.
Nate nudges my shoe with his.
Hard.
I glance at him.
He lifts a brow like, get it together, man.
Right.
Focus.
“Here,” I say, setting the bookshelf down carefully.
The women immediately crowd in, cooing over it, running their hands over the details, the painted wood, the tiny books tucked inside.
Hilary finally looks up.
Just for a second.
And it hits again—that same quiet, electric pull.
Yeah. This is a problem.
“Want a beer?” Nate asks, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
I nod.
“Yeah.”
We step away from the noise, from the laughter, from the swirl of pastel decorations and baby talk. Away from her.
And this is why I came.
Or at least, why I told myself I made the trip to Hammonton.
But even as we move toward the kitchen, grab a couple of beers, lean against the counter like we’ve done a hundred times before—my gaze drifts.
Back to her.
Sunshine.
And I don’t have the first clue what the hell I’m supposed to do about that.
Nate twists the cap off his beer and takes a long pull before glancing sideways at me.
I lean back against the counter, doing my best to look casual.
And failing, apparently.