Page 9 of About Yesterday (Foothills #5)

One of these days, he’d have to get out and see how much Foothills had grown up in the last decade. On the drive into town with Jeremy a few days ago, he’d seen more than a few new shops, new paint jobs, but he suspected a lot had stayed the same.

Haley scowled playfully and shook her head. “Second only to Halseth’s.”

His ears pricked up as he settled on what she’d said. At least Trace must still be close with Finn and his family, for her date to have pegged the pub as a better date spot than the Italian place. “Then why aren’t you going there tonight?”

“Don’t want Finn listening in,” Haley said, studying him carefully, her tone light with easy banter. What the hell was going on? He’d been under the impression that Finn and Trace were friends.

“Got you, you little son of a bitch,” Trace growled cheerfully as she held the last stitch in her tweezers, popping up to stand and showing off the twisted bugger.

“Me or the suture?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow as she rested one hand on his thigh and admired her handiwork.

She snorted and shook her head.

Before he could get a good look, it slipped from the tweezers and she laughed, the little bit lost forever in the carpet, likely with a few dozen pins ready to stab him in the foot the moment he hopped down.

“Thank you,” he said, an easy grin lifting the sides of his mouth as she set down the tweezers next to him, still standing dangerously close.

Hand still on his thigh for leverage, she checked the wound again and traced her thumb over the sides of it. “Are we supposed to bandage this or anything?”

“Nope,” he answered, that damn hope fluttering under his chest as she touched him. In front of her date. Who enjoyed Trace’s ex’s family pub but also didn’t want Trace’s ex overhearing.

He lowered to the floor, slowly and fearfully as he anticipated a miniscule prick, the idea of it somehow more terrifying than a blow to the head, relieved when nothing stabbed into his foot.

Trace didn’t move, now way too close for comfort, steadying the flat of her hand over his abdomen. “You good?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Yeah. Not dizzy,” he answered, nodding confidently but knowing damn well his cheeks were ghost white.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, studying him with that ferocity and he knew she wasn’t going to release him until she was sure.

“Long-lost cousin?” Haley asked from the doorway, lifting a curious, grinning look at them.

“What?” Trace asked without looking at her date, scowling up at Cole instead, now both hands gripping him tight around his middle. If he wasn’t dizzy before, he was spinning now. “No. Gross.”

He laughed at the unabashed honesty, that smidge of hopefulness perking up again. “Gross? That bad, huh? That you don’t even want to pretend to be related to me?”

She snorted a laugh. “You’re cute,” she muttered. “Maybe we should say you’re my imaginary friend.”

Dizziness washing away, his head was flooded thanks to her touching him, looking at him, pressed against him. “You were fifteen when we met. I think you’d outgrown imaginary friends by then.”

“And you were sixteen and I would totally have claimed you as an imaginary boyfriend,” she said, lifting an eyebrow and grinning wickedly at him.

“You had a boyfriend,” he said, gravel coating his voice as her words lingered where they shouldn’t. “You didn’t need an imaginary one.”

“A girl is entitled to a healthy imagination,” she teased, patting him on the tummy before she eased away.

Blood rushing south, he puffed in oxygen and reached back to grip the table.

Trace jumped back over and held him tighter than before, bracing her body against his protectively. “Dammit, Cole. Don’t pass out on me.”

“I won’t.” He was pretty sure words came out, the world around him flickering dark as he tried to stay upright, steadying himself against her but gripping the table in case he actually passed out this time.

“Maybe you should sit back down,” she whispered, so close he could feel her breath over his neck.

“I’m fine,” he growled.

“Come on. Let me help you out to the couch.” She gripped him tighter and nudged him to move with her.

When he didn’t budge, she looked up at him, worry coating those deep blues.

“I don’t want to ruin your dress,” he whispered, falling right back into the trap of noticing the low neck on her dress that dipped lower as she steadied him, and then quickly shifting his gaze up and landing on her eyes, darker with the shadow and dark lashes that were absolutely smoking.

“It’s okay,” she said, not releasing him. “It’s just a dress.”

He adjusted his posture, lifted his gaze and realized her date had disappeared. “I’m really fine,” he said, reaching for the crutch and hooking it under his arm. “Really.”

She glared up at him, brow drawn in calculation as she stepped back again.

Still dizzy, only slightly from the anemia, but he wasn’t pale anymore. Instead, his skin was on fire, radiating across his body from the memory of each point of contact with her.

“Okay,” she said, moving back further.

She stayed within reach.

He laughed and shook his head before hobbling awkwardly with the crutch, the movement splicing through his injured shoulder that wasn’t even involved in the action. But at least he didn’t have that damn boot on. “Go. Be gone. Have a nice date.”