Page 44 of A Little Crush (The Little Things #6)

JAXON

R ory looks beautiful. So much so, it’s hard to keep my eyes off her as the host guides us toward a quiet booth at the back of Butter and Grace.

She chose a simple sundress that reaches just above her knees and seems to pour gasoline on her already innocent persona.

It’s different than the dress she chose when she met up with Crowther.

A little more fitted and white instead of blue.

Fucking perfect. Add in her loose waves, light makeup, and glossy lips, and I’m a goner.

Seriously, should I put myself out of my misery now and kiss the shit out of her before we even make it to the table, or do I let her torture me for a few more hours?

I’m still not sure what we’re thinking. Coming here.

It’s not like I’m a celebrity or have an entourage or some shit.

But thanks to the relatively small town vibe and coaching Lockwood Ames University’s women’s team for years before accepting the Lions’ offer, it’s not like I fly under the radar.

I also don’t give a shit. Besides, family friends are allowed to grab a meal together, aren’t they?

Fuck, I don’t even know anymore .

“I haven’t been here in forever,” Rory tells me. “Excellent choice, Jax. Thanks for bringing me here.”

“No problem.”

I debated what we should do for our date for way too fucking long before deciding to take Rory’s advice.

I’m gonna not overthink shit, and we’re gonna go with what’s comfortable.

Butter and Grace is a long time favorite for most of our families, though I’m not very worried about running into them.

Maybe I should be. Maybe it’s a bad idea.

But as long as we don’t run into my ex, it should be fine.

If she finds out I’m dating anyone, even casually, she’ll lose her damn mind.

But if our families see us? We can brush it off as a friendly night out, one we’d entertain with any one in our families.

I glance at Rory again. The hem of her dress has me playing peekaboo with her silky thighs as it hikes up a few inches when she scoots into the booth.

Yeah, I definitely wouldn’t entertain these kinds of thoughts with any of our other friends. My jaw locks, and I clench my hand to keep from reaching out to smooth out the cotton fabric.

We both order our drinks, and the waitress sets them in front of us minutes later, leaving me alone with Rory and a charged silence I don’t know what to do with.

It’s not awkward but still holds an unfamiliar weight.

Placing the linen napkin on her lap, Rory peeks up at me, asking, “Is this weird?”

“Not weird.”

“You’re being quiet,” she notes.

She’s right. I am, but fuck me, I can’t help myself. I’m too distracted, too caught up in the woman across from me. Hell, I can barely think straight, let alone form a coherent sentence.

Get your head out of your ass, I remind myself. She’s not a piece of meat .

“You’re right.” I scratch my jaw. “Sorry, you just look really beautiful tonight.”

She hides her shy smile by picking up her glass and stealing a sip of her drink.

“Tell me where you’ve been the last ten years,” I prod, determined to reconcile the woman across from me with the sidekick I grew up with while also hoping the innocent line of questioning will help make her feel comfortable.

She raises a shoulder. “I don’t know? Hanging out. Earning my degree. Staying as far away from Lockwood Heights as possible.”

“I noticed the last one.” I snort. “At least you’re honest.”

Brow quirked, she licks her pouty lips. “I’m always honest.”

“Up front, then,” I clarify. “Usually you’re one to beat around the bush.”

She caves instantly. “Good point.”

“What made you choose child psychology?” I ask.

“Oof. Let’s see.” She hesitates, playing with the straw in her glass.

“After everything with Archer and Mav, it almost felt like a no-brainer. I spent years in therapy trying to understand the way my brain works and how to handle my compulsions and my anxiety and…the list goes on and on and on because it’s not something that can be fixed, you know?

” Her smile turns rueful. “And then one day, I realized I could take all of the time I’ve spent in therapy and all of the things I’ve learned to help others with it.

Add in how old I was when Archer died, and how different my experience was compared to Mav’s or Lia’s or yours, and I’m hoping it’ll help me relate to kids who have been through trauma in a way that would be beneficial to them.

And then, like I said, add in my OCD and anxiety and… I guess it just made sense.”

My nod is slow as I process her response. “How are your OCD and anxiety? ”

“As good as they can be,” she answers. “Neither are ever going away, which I know, but overall, I think I have a pretty good handle on them. Except when I’m lying naked on the bathroom tile with a throbbing shoulder while refusing to go to the hospital, but you know. Pretty good.”

I fight my amusement as I take a sip of my drink. The way she owns her shit even when it’s hard or could make others feel uncomfortable. I envy it. “I think you’re doing great, Rore.”

“Thanks.” She takes a deep breath, “Since we’re broaching the awkward subjects with the whole, how’s your OCD and anxiety going , I have one.”

“Hit me.”

“How’s your unrealistic desire to be perfect?”

A burst of laughter escapes me, and I reach for my water, chugging down half of it before setting it on the linen-covered table. “Still thriving, I guess.”

“And I wouldn’t expect anything else from you,” she quips. “But for real.” Her expression turns cautious. “You doing okay?”

“Is my friend asking or my potential therapist?”

Her mouth twitches. “I saw you crumble from the pressure after the first game of the season. I just want to be sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

Ever the caregiver. I shouldn’t expect anything less.

Swirling the ice in my glass, I answer, “I’m doing my best.”

“Of course you are. You never give anything but your best.” She reaches beneath the table and touches my knee. “And that’s the scary part.”

My lungs expand as I fight to hold her gaze. “Trying my best is scary?”

“No, but running at full-throttle without ever taking a second to rest is a recipe for burnout. Do you know what that means? ”

Despite feeling like I’m being scolded by my mom, I appreciate her candor and how she feels safe enough to tell me something I don’t want to hear. Leaning forward, I lace my fingers in front of me. “What does it mean, Rore?”

“It means your best stops being your best, and there’s a reason greatness is treasured instead of tossed around like little pieces of candy.”

“Pretty sure you’re jumping around with the metaphors,” I note.

“Pretty sure I’m allowed since it’s my degree and all.”

I snort. “Cop-out.”

“A hundred percent,” she agrees with a grin. “What do you like to do for fun?”

“Fun?”

“Oh, come on, don’t act like you never have any fun.”

I squeeze the back of my neck, playing shy. “I mean, since it’s been so long and all…”

Her grin widens as she swirls the straw in her glass. “Care if I take a stab at it?”

“Go ahead.”

“When I was young, you’d take me miniature golfing, like, all the time. Are you still a fan?”

Miniature golf? I search my memory for the last time I went to the local putt-putt course before realizing the truth, no matter how pathetic it is. “Damn, I’m pretty sure I haven’t been golfing since I was with you.”

“Really?” She sits a little taller and rests her chin in her hands, though I don’t miss the slight tinge of pink in her cheeks.

Does she like that? Knowing my last experience of something—no matter how many years it’s been—was with her? Fuck, if the roles were reversed, I’d be happy as hell.

“Yeah, really,” I confirm, sobering. “Didn’t feel like going after how everything ended. What about you? ”

She shakes her head. “Haven’t been since then, either.”

My brows raise, and my chest puffs up with satisfaction. “No shit?”

She nods. “One guy tried to take me my freshman year of college, but I couldn’t pick the right putter without feeling like I was going to have a panic attack, so he dropped it and took me home.”

Ignoring my unfounded jealousy at the idea of a guy taking her out years ago, I force a laugh and ask, “What was wrong with all the putters?”

“I don’t know?” She laughs. “That’s the funny part. They didn’t feel…right.” She grimaces. “They were either too long or the grip was torn or the color was wrong or…”

“Still got a thing for colors, huh?” I conclude.

Gaze narrowing, she flicks the straw wrapper at me. “Maybe.”

“You know all putters are the same size if you’re using the miniature-golf owned ones,” I point out, unable to help myself as I pour more salt in the wound. It’s only because I know she’d rather put up with my teasing than pretend like her OCD doesn’t exist at all.

“Whatever.” Flipping her long, ash-blonde hair over her shoulder, she rolls her eyes. “They were different, and I stand by that.”

“Of course you do,” I chuckle again. “So, what do you say? Wanna play nine holes?”

“Of miniature golf?”

“Yeah.”

Taking a sip of her fruity cocktail, she eyes me over the rim before licking her lips and setting it down. “All right. I’m in,” she decides.

“Really?”

“Yeah? What’s the worst that can happen? ”

“The putters are too long or the grips have holes or the color is wrong?” I offer.

She reaches across the table, smacking my shoulder. “Keep it up, and I’ll shove my putter up your ass.”

“Ouch.” My amusement reaches a new pitch, and I settle back into my side of the booth. “I thought I was the one filling your holes, not the other way around.”

“Jax!” Her hand connects with my shoulder again, though the mirth dancing in her eyes, only eggs me on even more.