Pete is waiting for me on the porch when I walk over from Mom’s house, leaning his forearms on the handrails. He brightens when he sees me, and jumps off the porch, jogs down the path, and meets me halfway.
We stop at the same time, close enough so we can touch each other, but we don’t. Not yet.
His gaze takes me in, sweeping over me from top to bottom, lingering on my hips before continuing down my legs, and all the way up again until he meets my gaze.
“Welcome,” he says and smiles. “I’m glad you’re here. How was your trip?”
“Good.” I return his smile and don’t try to hide that I’m looking at him. He’s wearing midnight black jeans—a crisp, fancy pair that look glued to his muscular thighs—and a charcoal gray short-sleeved shirt with tiny white polka dots. The top button is open, givin
