Renee giggled and sauntered toward the front door, winking at Nash over her shoulder on the way.
Calla sucked in air, filling her lungs to keep from screaming her frustration, and they’d only just begun. This wasn’t going as planned. At all.
Daphne squeezed her shoulders in support, the jangle of her bracelets clanking in the quiet room. “Okay, so let’s just assume that Kirby’s right, for the sake of argument. Calla, you go stand behind the front desk and Nash, you go out and come back in again, heading for the rec room just like you did that day.”
Calla’s legs felt like wood as she trudged to the front desk, her fingers crossed this would work. So far, he remembered everything about the center. When it first opened and all the small details in between, except for her.
Yet, she was determined to at least try to help him remember because she didn’t want to know if Fate’s message meant he’d never remember their three months together—or why she couldn’t just attempt the whole process of making him fall in love with her all over again.
The outcome would likely be the same between them, wouldn’t it?
Wouldn’t it?
If he’d fallen for her once, why not once more?
Fear crept into her doubts, ramping them up another notch. Fate had been very clear. She had one day to show him something…His urgency had freaked her out. So she wasn’t taking any chances. She’d do whatever she had to in order to help Nash find his way back to her.
Planting her feet behind the front desk, she fluffed her hair—which was utterly ridiculous, but had she known back on that fateful day it would be the first time he saw her again after eleven years, she would have primped then, too.
“Ready?” Daphne asked, peering at her with concern.
Calla hedged, worried she’d miss some detail that in the end would be the most important one of all. “Wait. What was I doing, Kirby? Because I don’t remember seeing him until he was on his way out with Mr. Swanson.”
Mr. Swanson strolled up to the counter, turning his head from left to right. “Which is my best side?”
“Sit down, Henry!” Flora yelled from one of the tables littering the rec room’s front entrance. “Nobody will give a hoot which side of your face is your best side when I put your nose on your ass. You’re not an actor on some soap opera, you old fool. True love’s at stake here! Now park it or I’m taking your denture cream and chucking it right in the compactor!”
Calla held up a hand and gave him an apologetic smile. “Mr. Swanson, why don’t you head on down the hall to the rec room and just try to do what Greta tells you to do. This is no big deal. Just a quick replay of the day we saw each other again.”
She didn’t want the seniors to stress over her problems. This was supposed to be a place everyone came to relax and enjoy their retirement from witchdom. But the moment they’d found out Calla was in distress, everyone insisted on helping, leaving a warm glow in her belly.
Henry patted her hand, his palm like aged leather. “You’re a good girl, Calla, and you always give me extra hot fudge on Ice Cream Tuesday. I like you. I’ll do whatever I can to help.” He shuffled off toward the rec room, passing Flora and giving her the old drive-by middle finger.
Nash laughed into his arm, that high-pitched laugh he reserved for things he knew he shouldn’t laugh over because it was wrong, but couldn’t keep his amusement contained on the inside.
“Do not encourage, Cowboy,” she ordered in her senior-care-manager voice.
“Sorrysorrysorry,” he muttered, his handsome face apologetic. He made a series of funny faces to quell his laughter, something she’d seen him do at a town council meeting or two when the antics rivaled a Monty Python movie. Then he straightened and shook his arms around before settling them at his sides. “Okay, I’m ready.”
As Nash walked out the door, her heart thumped hard against her ribs.
Renee was right. He did have a great ass. He had a great everything and he was going to slip through her fingers if she didn’t do something to stop it.
God, she loved him.
Chapter 9
They sat in the park in the middle of the square by a crusty old pecan tree, the heat of the day creating a pool of sweat in her bra. The scene was set, colorful lawn chairs were scattered around a cooler filled to the brim, the seniors milling about, waiting for their cues.
The sun, even at the end of October, was unforgiving in its wrath. It was days like this when she missed the reds and golds of fall back in Boston most. The cool weather, hot soup and sandwiches, long walks with a sharp wind at her back.
Nothing had jarred Nash’s memory after they’d reenacted the first time they’d seen each other in eleven years—or as Daphne had titled it—Reunion.