Page 72 of Too Good to Be True

“You told your sister about us?” He looked pleasantly surprised.

“Well, not everything. Okay. Almost everything. But I knew she wouldn’t tell anyone.”

He chuckled. “I’m not worried. So, what did your sister have to say?”

“She told me to trust my instincts and just go for it, or something to that effect.”

He squeezed her hands again. “Sounds like good advice.”

“She’s younger than me. I’m the one who should be giving her advice, not the other way around.”

“The age thing really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

She shrugged. “A little bit.”

He brushed his thumbs over the back of her hands, which, thankfully, weren’t covered with age spots—yet.

“I’ve dated women in their twenties and in their thirties, and you know what I discovered?”

“That boobs sag with age.”

His laughter boomed out and shook the apartment walls. “No!”

“Well, they do. Trust me.”

He continued, undeterred. “I’ve known twenty-somethings who look twice their age because they don’t take good care of themselves. I’ve also known thirty-somethings who look much younger. It all depends on the person and the energy they exude. I think it’s a misnomer that men prefer younger women. Personally, I think you’re much prettier than a lot of the younger women I’ve known.”

While she appreciated the sentiment, she didn’t want to think about all the women he’d known. “You’re very sweet.”

“You don’t believe me, though.”

“I want to.”

“Then do.”

“Even if you’ve convinced me that age doesn’t matter, there are still the other issues I mentioned.”

“I know. But how about we tackle one thing at a time?”

She sighed. “Okay. Why don’t we start by tackling some of these boxes?”

“Really? That’s what you want to do right now?”

“You like yardwork. I like organizing things. Let’s get to work.”

For a while, that was exactly what they did. The boxes were labeled for each room, which made it easier. As they unloaded them, she occasionally asked where to put something, but he kept saying, “I trust your judgment. You decide.”

When she unpacked a framed photo of him standing between two older adults, she said, “Are these your parents?”

He smiled. “Yeah.”

“I can see where you get your complexion from.” Nick’s dad had the same caramel skin and dark features, while his mom was fairer, like Fran. “They look sweet.”

“They are.”

Soon they moved on to the kitchen. While they were putting away dishes and utensils, she was keenly aware of his closeness in the small space. One time, he came up behind her to place something on a high shelf, and his front rubbed against her back. She suppressed the urge to lean back against him and purr. She reminded herself they had a job to do and there would be no funny business until they’d finished unpacking. The second time it happened, she glanced over her shoulder to see him grinning at her, his eyes sparkling.

“You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?”