Текст книги "One Tiny Lie "

Автор книги: K. A. Tucker

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“I know, Reagan. I know. You’re right. I’m just not good at that.” It’s surprising, given that I grew up with the queen of comebacks. But if I don’t learn to handle him, “slow and easy” Connor is going to run “fast and hard” away from me.

“Just laugh it off.” She gives my arm an affectionate squeeze as we head out the door.

Then I remember the picture of Ashton that Kacey just sent me. I know it’s juvenile but I hold my phone up, a vindictive thrill making me smile. “Take a look at this, Reagan.” By the time we arrive at our table, tears are streaming down our cheeks, we’re laughing so hard.

Connor’s green eyes flicker with a mixture of surprise and amusement as he holds out my chair for me. “What’s so funny?” If Ashton’s earlier comment affected him one way or another, I can’t tell.

“Oh, nothing,” I say casually, downing what’s left of my drink and picking up the fresh one that someone ordered while I was gone, intentionally ignoring Ashton’s watchful gaze.

“Show him, Livie,” Reagan announces with an impish grin, adding, “You know what they say about payback . . .”

Grinning, I hold my phone up.

I’ve never heard three grown men howl like Connor, Grant, and Ty do when they see the picture. Clapping his hands, Ty bellows, “We need to get that blown up and put on our wall!” Then he mimics the look on Ashton’s face, making a low guttural sound and pointing to his roommate, who has no clue what’s happening because I intentionally held it out of his view.

A bulging arm stretches out in front of me to grab my phone but I’m ready for it, hitting the power button and tucking the phone into my pocket. Drawing my straw into my mouth, I take my time sucking back my drink. The guys are still laughing as I place it down and fold my hands over my knee. I hazard a glance in Ashton’s direction to see that playful twinkle in his eyes as he chews the inside of his mouth. Thinking about all the ways to get even, no doubt. Part of me is downright terrified of what’s about to come out of his mouth because it will likely make me shrivel up into a fiery ball of humiliation.

“Hi, Ashton.” Looking over my shoulder, I find a gorgeous Latina woman batting long, made-up lashes at Ashton. I instantly recognize her voice as the one from the bathroom, only now she’s got the “come-home-with-me” sultry tone dialed to max.

Ashton doesn’t turn to acknowledge her right away. He takes his time, slowly twisting in his chair, his arm coming up to rest on the back. When he’s finally facing her, his eyes graze over her curvy, fit body.

I roll my eyes, the desire to slap him upside the head overpowering.

“Hello?” Ashton finally says and, by the inflection at the end, I can’t tell if it’s a do-I-know-you hello or a why-are-you-bothering-me hello. She must be wondering that too, because her tongue darts out to nervously lick her red lips. “We . . . met last year. I’m over there if you want to swing by for a drink later.” She gestures to our left with a flirty flip of her long, curly black hair, but I notice that her voice is a tad less sultry, a touch more unsure now.

Nodding slowly, he gives her a polite smile—not his flirty smirk—and says, “Okay, thanks.” Then his arm slips down and his body shifts so he’s facing our table again. He takes a sip of his drink as he checks his phone.

I look behind us to see the girl leaving quietly, her exhibitionist ego that much smaller than when she arrived.

I should feel bad for her. He wasn’t outright mean, but he certainly wasn’t friendly.

I know I should feel bad for her.

But I don’t. I don’t want him going home with her. Or anyone.

So instead, I feel a bubble of relief surge inside my chest. A bubble that makes me blurt out a stupid thing like, “I heard her talking about you in the bathroom.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. Why the hell would I tell him that?

“Oh yeah?” Ashton’s eyes flicker to me. “What’d she say?” From the way his eyes twinkle with a spark of recognition, I see that he does remember her, and that he has a good idea about what she would have said.

I take another very long sip of my drink. Ashton’s gaze drops down to my mouth and I stop, lifting the glass to hide my lips. His smile widens. He enjoys making me uncomfortable. The guy is so damn confident, it makes me sick. I have no interest in aiding that by telling him the truth. “That she’s had better.”

Where did that come from? My subconscious evil twin?

I guess it’s the right answer, because another round of laughter explodes at the table. This time Grant is the one smacking his hands against the table noisily, threatening all of our drinks. Try as I might, I can’t help the wide, stupid grin that I feel stretching over my face as I watch Ashton’s cheeks brighten.

Finally. I may still die from embarrassment tonight, but at least I’ll go down swinging.

I have no clue what to expect next. Ashton’s shining eyes are so hard to read most of the time, aside from knowing they mean trouble. So when his hand latches onto my knee and slides up and down my thigh—not too high to be completely inappropriate, but enough that uncomfortable heat shoots through me—I assume an agonizingly slow torture, like stringing me up naked in front of a crowd.

“I knew you had it in you, Irish,” is all he says, though. Leaning over the table, he calls out, “So, Connor . . . do you think you can make it through a few drinks without pissing in my shoes tonight?”

My head whips around in time to catch Connor’s brow arch with a flash of surprise, his cheeks turning rosy. He clears his voice and peeks at me as he mutters, “That was Ty.”

A hand slaps the table. “I do not, nor have I ever, urinated in anyone’s shoes!” Ty exclaims indignantly.

“Oh, yeah? What about my boots?” Grant counters with a bitter edge to his voice.

“Those ugly red fur things? They were asking for it.”

“I had no winter boots for a week during exams because of you, fuckhead! I almost froze to death!”

“Speaking of freezing to death, remember the time Coach found Connor buck naked and ass up in one of the boats the morning of the big race?” Ashton reminisces, stretching in his seat, his arms lifting to hold the back of his head as he grins. “You almost got kicked off the team.”

“Oh, I heard about that!” Reagan folds her hands over her mouth to cover her gaping mouth. “Man, was my dad pissed.”

I’m giggling as I glance at Connor, who winks at me before retorting, “Not nearly as bad as the time you were handcuffed, stripped, and robbed by that transvestite in Mexico.”

I manage not to spray anyone but myself as my drink explodes from my mouth a second time.

Ashton reaches over and yanks my glass out of my hand, his fingers skating across mine, sending a shock through my body. Every touch from him seems to have that effect. “Someone get Irish a bib.”

The guys spend the next two hours highlighting stories of their drunken debauchery—most involve waking up in public places naked—as I allow myself to relax. And believe that maybe being around Ashton won’t be so unbearable after all. By the time the band begins their set, we’re all feeling the effects of alcohol and every last piece of dirty laundry has been hung on display—Ashton and Connor’s in particular. They seemed to be trying to match and raise each other all night.

It’s hard to talk over the band, so we sit back and listen. Connor’s arm is thrown over the back of my chair, his thumb strumming against my shoulder with the beat of the music. It’s a local alternative band, playing mainly covers but a few of their own songs. And they’re really good. I’d be able to focus if Ashton’s leg didn’t keep brushing up against mine. Short of throwing my legs over Connor’s lap, I can’t seem to get away from it.

When the band takes its first break and the boring satellite radio music comes back on, Connor leans over and says into my ear, “I hate to do this, but I’ve got to head out now. I have an early class tomorrow.”

Glancing at my watch, I’m shocked to see that it’s close to midnight. With a big bubble of disappointment rising, I reach back to grab my jacket.

Connor’s hand on my shoulder stops me. “No, you don’t have to go. Have fun.” He’s slurring slightly.

I scan our table to see that everyone has a full drink in hand. Ashton is flipping a paper coaster around in his fingers as he talks to Grant and Reagan. No one else seems ready to go.

Ashton doesn’t seem ready to go.

A tiny surge in my heart tells me I’m not ready to go either.

“You sure?” Maybe I’ m slurring too.

“Yeah. Of course.” He presses a kiss against my cheek and then stands to pull his jacket on. “See you guys. Make sure Livie gets home all right.” He stops as if remembering something. I catch his gaze roll over at his best friend and then settle on me. Gripping my chin with his thumb and index finger, he leans down and places a sloppy kiss on my lips. I feel the prickles at the back of my neck and I instantly know Ashton is watching. “Just don’t drink too much,” Connor whispers in my ear. I roll my tongue to gauge the degree of numbness in response. “You don’t want to wake up with any more tattoos.”

I watch him leave, hyperaware of Ashton’s brown eyes still on me. A ripple of discomfort flows through me and I decide that now is probably a good time to stop drinking, and it has nothing to do with waking up with tattoos. It’s also a good time to use the bathroom. For the fiftieth time.

I’m returning to our table when the band is kicking off their next set with a slow song. The open floor space in front of them is packed with people, some swaying to the music, others there to get close to the edgy-looking lead singer. Ty is busy shooting lascivious smiles at Sun, whom I ran into here tonight and made the mistake of introducing to our table. Ashton seems content just sitting and listening to the music, his hands interlocked behind his head, a strange, peaceful smile on his face.

I see her approach from the other side of the room.

The sultry Latin exhibitionist is closing in on our table again. If her ego was bruised by Ashton’s polite brush-off earlier, it has quickly recuperated and is now gearing up for the second attack. I can’t help but think that Ashton must really be that good if a knockout like her, who could probably seduce the Pope, is willing to take another run at him.

I hope he shoots her down.

What if he doesn’t?

She’s only a few steps away from our table, approaching it from the opposite side. I don’t know why but I rush forward to reach it before she does, tripping over my own feet as I do. I recuperate quickly, but Ashton is facing me and sees the entire thing. It elicits a wide, genuine grin. “Irish, what’s the rush?” he asks just as her long fingernails glide intimately across his bicep. “Come dance with me, Ash.” The sultry is dialed back up again. Man, she’s sure of herself! I wish I could be that sure of myself.

I hold my breath as recognition flitters across Ashton’s eyes. I know he heard her and I know that I don’t want him going anywhere with her. I watch as one arm slides out from behind his head to clamp onto my wrist. “Maybe next time,” he calls over his shoulder as he stands. Before I know what’s happening, his towering body presses up against me and he’s ushering me toward the dance floor.

Adrenaline blasts through my veins.

Once safely in the sea of bodies, I expect that he’ll let go of me, the dodge successful. Just like he manhandled me that day in the bathroom, he again smoothly whips me around, pulling my body close against him. He takes my hands and settles them around his neck and then those fingers of his slide down my arms, down my sides, all the way to my hips.

The music is loud enough that conversation is difficult. Maybe that’s why Ashton leans so close that his mouth grazes my ear to say, “Thanks for saving me.” It sends a shiver through me. “And you don’t need to be nervous around me, Irish.”

“I’m not,” I lie, and I hate that I sound breathless but if he doesn’t stop whispering in my ear, I’m going to . . . I don’t know what I’m going to do.

His hands squeeze me, tugging on my hips, bringing me flush against him—against what I should not be feeling right now. Ohmigod. Ashton’s actually turned on. This is all wrong. My hands slip down to press flat against his chest and yet I can’t will my body to push away as it responds the exact same way I remember from my dream.

“Do you know why I call you Irish?”

I shake my head. I assumed it was because, in my drunken stupor, I divulged my background. Something now tells me there’s more to the nickname than that.

“Well,” he says, with a lascivious grin, “admit that you want me and I’ll tell you why.”

With a stubborn shake of my head, I mutter, “Not a chance.” I may have left my pride on the dance floor that night, but I certainly won’t do it again tonight.

Ashton’s perfect full lips pucker slightly as he stares down at me with intense, thoughtful eyes. I have no clue what he’s thinking, aside from the obvious. Part of me wants to ask outright. The other part is telling myself that I’m an idiot for tripping into this situation. Literally. Then, when Ashton’s thumbs start to stroke over my hip bones and my heart begins to pound against my rib cage, I’m convinced that I should have let the sultry exhibitionist have her way with him because now I’ve really gotten myself into trouble.

That’s why his next words surprise me. “Connor asked that I make you like me,” Ashton casually says, easing his tight grip on my hips so that I’m not pressed directly against his erection, allowing me to breathe again. His mouth twists as if from something sour. “Since he really likes you.” Then he sighs, looking over my head, as he adds, “And I’m his best friend.” As if he’s reminding himself of that.

Right, Connor. I swallow. The mention of Connor and his feelings for me while my hands are still flattened against his best friend’s chest, the one that I pawed repeatedly not even two weeks ago, fills me with guilt.

“So?” Serious dark eyes lock on my face. “How do I do that, Irish? How do I make you like me?” His question is already dripping with innuendo but when he uses that tone—one that is crackling with desire—my mouth instantly dries. And I remember exactly why I probably did throw myself at him the first time. And I’m about to do it again.

I try to summon the willpower to turn and walk away. With a deep exhale, I slide my hands back to his neck and match his intent gaze. I’m speechless. Utterly speechless. I bite my bottom lip. His eyes drop to my mouth, his own lips parting a touch. I quickly manage to croak out without thought, “Stop embarrassing me?”

He nods slowly as if considering it. There’s a pause. “What if I’m not trying to and I still embarrass you? You embarrass easily.”

Case in point, my cheeks flush and I roll my eyes. “Just tone it down.”

Ashton’s hands shift up and back slightly, his fingers spreading out along my sides and back, his pinkies just above the border of inappropriate ass touching. “Okay. What else? Come on, Irish. Lay it on me.”

I chew the inside of my mouth, thinking. What else do I say? Stop looking at me like that? Stop touching me like that? Stop being so sexy? No . . . if I’m being honest, those things aren’t bothering me right now. Probably because I’m drunk.

“Of course, we could go back to your room and—”

“Ashton!” I smack his chest hard. “Stop crossing the line!”

“We’ve already crossed that line.” His arms suddenly surround and crush me against him, until I can feel every part of him. For just a second, my body responds of its own accord, drawn by the electricity surging through to the very ends of my nerves.

Finally my brain manages to break the magnetic pull. I pinch a muscle in his shoulder hard enough that he flinches as he releases his grip.

He’s not ready to let me go just yet, though, his hands settling on my hips again. “Feisty. Just how I like you, Irish. And I’m kidding.”

“No, you’re not. I felt it.” I tilt my head and cock one eyebrow to give him a knowing stare.

That only makes him laugh. “I can’t help that, Irish. You bring out the best in me.”

“That defines you?”

“Some would say . . .”

“Is that why you . . . with so many women?”

An amused smirk touches his lips. “What is it you can’t say, sweet little Irish? Is that why I fuck so many women?”

I wait for the answer, curious as to what he’s going to give.

The strangest look passes over his face. “It’s an escape for me. Helps me forget when I want to forget . . . things.” With a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes, he adds, “You think you have me all figured out.”

“If pompous, philandering, narcissistic ass is what I’m thinking, then . . . yeah.” I need to stop drinking. Loose lips syndrome has officially taken over. Next, I’ll bring up my dirty dream.

He nods slowly. “If I don’t mess around, would that make you feel better?”

“Well, it’d certainly make your girlfriend feel better,” I mutter.

“What if I didn’t have a girlfriend?”

I don’t notice that my feet stop moving until his do as well. “You . . . broke up with Dana?”

“What if I said that I did? Would it matter to you?”

Not trusting my voice, I simply shake my head. No, in my head I know it wouldn’t matter because he’s still all wrong.

“Not at all?” His eyes drift to my mouth as he asks in a tone so gentle, so vulnerable, so . . . hurt, almost.

My body involuntarily reacts to him, my hands curling tighter around his neck, pulling him closer to me, wanting to comfort and assure him. What exactly do I feel for him?

The slow song has ended and moved on to a high-tempo rock song, but we’re still standing chest to chest.

I know I shouldn’t ask, but I do it anyway. “What you said in that note. Why?”

He looks away for a moment and I watch his jaw clench. When he meets my eyes, there’s resignation there. “Because you’re not a one-night girl, Irish.” Leaning in to place a kiss on my jawline, he whispers, “You’re my forever girl.”

His hands slip away from me and he turns. With my heart pounding in my throat, I stand there and watch as he calmly walks to the table to grab his jacket.

And then he walks out the door.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Attraction

You’re my forever girl.

I can’t shake his words. Since the moment they escaped those perfect lips of his, they’ve hung over me. They followed me all the way home in a drunken stupor, they crawled into bed with me, and they lingered there all night to greet me the moment my eyes opened in the morning.

Moreover, I can’t shake the way I’ve felt since he said them. Or even the way he made me feel the entire night. I can’t articulate what that feeling is; I just know that it wasn’t there before. And it’s still here now, even though I’m sober.

I’m attracted to Ashton Henley. There. I’ve admitted it. Not to him or Reagan or anyone else, but I may as well admit it to myself and learn to deal with it. I’m attracted to my drunken one-night stand, who also happens to be an unavailable whore and my kind-of boyfriend’s roommate and best friend. Wait. Is he available? He never answered my question. But I guess a whore is always available, so it’s a moot point.

Lying here, staring up at my ceiling, I have sorted out one thing, though. My body is staging a mutiny over my mind and my heart, and consuming alcohol is like handing it a set of knives.

Reagan’s moans interrupt my silent berating. “Jack bad . . .” As usual, she didn’t pace herself, matching Grant drink for drink. Grant, who has at least a hundred pounds on her. “I feel like a horse’s ass. I’m never drinking again.”

“Didn’t you say that last time?” I remind her wryly.

“Hush now. Be a good roomie and support my self-deception.”

I don’t feel much better, truth be told. “Alcohol really is the devil, isn’t it?” My fanatical Aunt Darla may not be so crazy after all.

“And yet it makes the nights so much fun.”

“We don’t need alcohol to have fun, Reagan.”

“You sound like an after-school special.”

I groan. “Come on. We should probably get to class.”

“Uh . . . which one?”

Rolling my head to the side, I can see that the red digital clock on the dresser reads one p.m. “Shit!”

“Still angry with me, Livie?” Dr. Stayner asks in that smooth, unperturbed way of his.

I kick a loose stone as I make my way to my train. “I’m not sure yet. Maybe.” That’s a lie. I know that I’m not. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t be again by the time I hang up the phone.

“You never could hold a grudge . . .” Kacey was right. He can read minds. “How are you?”

“I skipped class yesterday,” I admit, adding dryly, “Doesn’t sound like part of my autopilot master plan, does it?”

“Hmm . . . interesting.”

“Well.” I roll my eyes and confess, “not really. I slept in. It wasn’t intentional.”

He chuckles. “And how do you feel, now that it happened?”

I frown. “Strangely, okay.” Twenty-four hours after a mini meltdown—one where I texted my lab partner in a panic and he assured me at least five times that the prof didn’t notice that I was missing and that I could borrow his notes—I’m oddly unbothered.

“You mean, like missing a class is not the end of the world?” There’s a soft chuckle again.

I smile into the phone, defeated by his ease. “Maybe not.”

“Good, Livie. I’m glad that you will survive this heinous offense. And how was your first day of volunteering at the hospital?” I catch the shift in his inflection. I recognize it well. It’s the one where he already knows the answer but is asking me anyway.

“Livie? You there?”

“It was good. The kids are sweet. Thanks for setting it up.”

“Of course, Livie. I’m a firm believer in gaining experience where you can.”

“Even if I don’t belong there?” I retort, my words laced with bitterness.

“I never said that, Livie, and you know that.”

There’s a long pause and then I blurt out, “It was hard.” He waits silently for me to elaborate. “It was harder than I thought it would be.”

He seems to know exactly what I mean without me saying it. “Yes, Livie. It’s hard for grumpy old men like me to walk those halls. I knew it would be especially tough on you, given your nurturing spirit.”

“It will get better, though, won’t it? I mean,” I say as I dodge a woman who’s stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, looking confused, “I won’t feel so . . . sad every day that I’m there, will I? I’ll get used to it?”

“Maybe not, Livie. Hopefully, yes. But if it doesn’t get easier, and if you decide that you want to head in a different path, find another way to help children, that’s okay too. You’re not failing anyone by changing your mind.”

I chew the inside of my mouth as I consider that. I have no intention of changing anything and it’s not as if he’s encouraging me to give up. I know that. It’s almost as if he’s giving me permission, if I should so choose. Which I’m not doing.

“Now tell me what’s going on with these boys who are chasing you.”

Boys? Plural? My eyes narrow as I glance around, surveying the people in the area. “Are you following me?”

I have to wait a good ten seconds for him to stop howling with laughter before I can continue. I know what I want to ask him, but now that I’m talking to him, I feel stupid. Should I be asking the renowned PTSD therapist about something so trivial? So girly? I can hear Dr. Stayner sipping something on the other end of the phone as he waits quietly. “How do you know when a guy likes you? I mean, really likes you? Not just . . .” I swallow as my cheeks redden. I might start to choke on my words soon. “Not just in a physical way?”

There’s a long pause. “It’s usually by the things he does rather than the things he says. And if he does them without making a show of it, then he’s got it bad.”

You’re my forever girl.

Just words. There, Dr. Stayner has confirmed it. I shouldn’t be hung up on what Ashton said to me while drunk because they’re just words. It doesn’t mean there’s anything there aside from a case of raging hormones. I feel my heart sink a little with that realization. But at least it’s an answer and not the unknown.

I should stick with Connor. He’s what feels right.

“Thanks, Dr. Stayner.”

“Is this about that Irish fellow you met?”

“No . . .” I heave a sigh. “Ashton.”

“Ah, the Jell-O thief.”

“Yeah. He also happens to be Connor’s best friend and roommate.” And he may or may not have a girlfriend, but I leave that part out. It’s already complicated.

“Well, that’s quite the pickle you’re in, Livie.”

My only response is a grunt of agreement.

“How would you feel if this Ashton fellow was interested? More than physically, I mean.”

I open my mouth, but I realize I don’t have an answer aside from, “I don’t know.” And I don’t, truthfully. Because it doesn’t matter. Connor is perfect and easy. Ashton is far from perfect. I know now what Storm and Kacey mean when they call someone “sex on a stick.” That’s what Ashton is. He’s not a forever guy. Connor is a forever guy. Well, I think he’s a forever guy. It’s just too soon to tell.

“Have you at least admitted to yourself that you’re attracted to Ashton?”

Dammit! If I answer him truthfully, it makes it that much harder to deny. It makes it more real. “Yes,” I finally grumble reluctantly. Yes, I’m attracted to my kind-of boyfriend’s man-whore best friend. I’m even having dirty dreams about him.

“Good. Glad that’s out of the way. I feared it would take months before you stopped being so stubborn.”

I roll my eyes at the know-it-all doctor.

“You know what I would do in the meantime?”

My mouth twists, curious. “What?”

“I’d wear my hair in pigtails.”

At least five seconds pass before I can get around my shock to ask, “What?”

“Boys with crushes on girls can’t control themselves around pigtails.”

Great. Now I’m being mocked by a psychiatrist. My psychiatrist. I see the station up ahead and, checking my watch, I know that the train will arrive shortly. The one that takes me to Children’s Hospital so I can focus on things that matter. Shaking my head, I say, “Thanks for listening, Dr. Stayner.”

“Call me anytime, Livie. Seriously.”

I hang up, not sure if I feel better or worse.

“Now can you tell us apart?” Eric stands side by side next to a paler-looking Derek. He’s rubbing his smooth scalp. Both of them are grinning.

I purse my lips to keep from smiling as I pull my brows together tightly. My eyes shift from one to the other and back again, scratching my chin as if I’m truly confused. “Derek?” I point to Eric.

“Ha, ha!” Eric’s scrawny arms shoot out in a funny little dance. “Nope! I’m Eric. We win!”

Tilting my head back, I smack my forehead. “I’ll never get you two right!”

“We shaved my head this morning,” Eric explains as he skips over to me. “It’s really smooth. Touch it.”

I oblige, running my fingers over the faint hairline that I can still see. “Smooth,” I agree.

He scrunches his nose. “It feels weird. But it’ll grow back, like Derek’s always does.”

Like Derek’s always does. My stomach muscle spasms for just a second. How many rounds of treatment has that poor kid endured? “It definitely will, Eric,” I say, forcing a smile as I walk over to the table and take a seat. “So what do you want to do today?”

Derek silently takes a seat beside me. By his slower movements, I can tell he doesn’t have the energy of his brother, who just started his treatments this week, according to Connie. “Draw?” he suggests.

“Sounds like a good plan. What do you want to draw?”

His forehead creases as he thinks hard. “I want to be a policeman when I grow up. They’re strong and they can save people. Can I draw that?”

With a deep inhale, I smile. “I think that’s a great idea.”

As the boys get to work, I scan the playroom. There are several other kids here today, including a little girl in an entirely pink ensemble—pink pajamas, pink fuzzy slippers, pink handkerchief covering what I assume is a hairless head. She clutches a pink teddy bear under one arm. Someone—likely another volunteer—trails behind her as she floats from toy to toy, casting furtive glances over in our direction.

“Hi, Lola!” Eric calls out and then, leaning in to me, whispers, “She’s almost four. She’s okay. For a girl.”

“Well, then, we should invite her to sit down with us,” I say, raising an eyebrow and waiting.

Eric’s eyes widen when he clues in that I’m suggesting he do the asking. A shy smile curves his mouth as he watches her out of the corner of his eye.

It’s his brother, though, who turns around and says in that soft, raspy voice, “Do you want to sit with us, Lola?”

Eric scrambles to take the seat next to me, edging in a little closer, watching Lola like a hawk as she gingerly picks her way to the empty seat between him and Derek. “Feel my head, Lola,” he says, leaning forward to point his smooth scalp in her face.

Giggling, she shakes her head and folds her hands under her arms, recoiling slightly.

Derek doesn’t find it amusing, though, and glowers at his brother. “Stop telling people to touch your head.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s weird.” Derek’s eyes flicker over to Lola and the glower vanishes instantly. “Right, Lola?”

She just shrugs, her eyes flickering back and forth behind the two brothers, not saying anything.

Giving up on his attempt to impress Lola with his smooth scalp, Eric occupies himself with his picture, drawing a tank. His brother, though, slides a sheet forward and, holding out his box of crayons, offers, “Here, do you want to draw a picture with me?”

And that’s when it hits me. Derek has a crush on little Lola. I share a look with the middle-aged volunteer who trailed her here. She winks, confirming it.

The boys and Lola color for an hour straight, using up a stack of paper as they draw themselves as everything from a policeman to a werewolf to a scuba-diver to a rock star and the entire time, I can’t take my eyes off Derek as he dotes on Lola, helping her hold her crayon properly, drawing parts of her picture that are harder for a four-year-old than an almost-six-year-old.

I watch while my heart melts and aches at the same time.

At the end of the hour, when Lola’s volunteer reminds her that she needs her rest, Eric, who’s busy coloring the wheels on his dump truck, hollers, “’Bye, Lola!” Derek, though, takes the picture he drew of himself as the policeman and quietly gives it to Lola for her room.