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“I can’t say that I’ve ever been attracted to a pregnant woman.”
“Cash doesn’t ever want kids, remember?” Adalynn says. I know it isn’t a strike at my character, but for some reason, it sort of feels like it is.
She knows almost all of my deep, dark secrets, and I know I’ve shared with her my reasoning for not wanting children.
“Pregnant women just have this air of belonging to someone else,” I say in explanation. “It’s never dawned on me to find them attractive. They’re off-limits.”
Both guys snort, a sound of derision.
“Maybe in vanilla land,” Donnie mutters.
“We’re not going to talk of such things at the dinner table,” Adalynn says, her cheeks turning pink.
The flush there is another reminder that we’d never mix well. As quick as I am to say that sex isn’t everything in a relationship, it is a part of it. Long-lasting relationships have to be compatible on nearly every aspect for it to see long-term success.
It’s another hour before I get to my most favorite part of the night. I’m not taking away from the amazing food the Tates and Gibsons so generously share with me sometimes more than once a week, but the evenings I get to spend alone with Adalynn are the best time of my life.
“Sweet or salty?” Adalynn asks the second I walk into her house.
Coming here is different from going to her parents’ homes. I have a key to this place, and I use it readily. I don’t know thatI’d ever use it if I weren’t expected, but so much of our lives overlap that it’s never been an issue.
“I don’t know that I can eat another thing,” I say, pressing my hand to my stomach.
Her eyes dip lower on my body. Although there isn’t a dirty thought in her head where I’m concerned, it still causes the threat of certain reactions.
“Nope,” she says, her eyes drifting back up to mine. “We aren’t doing that again. Salty or sweet?”
“Doing what?” I ask, walking closer to her but keeping her island countertop between us.
What I’d really like to say is that I’d like to lick a little of both off her body, but she’d probably slap me in the face and then add me to the prayer list at church because I’m such a pervert.
“You always do that. You say you don’t want anything, but then you eat half of the snack I make. The guys were being too crude at dinner. I didn’t eat much. I’m not sharing my snack tonight.”
She takes a long breath, having said all of that in one go.
I can’t tell her that I like sharing with her because it means at least a handful of times, I can brush my fingers along hers as I strategically reach into the bowl her snack is in, at the same time she reaches in.
“I can’t pick,” I tell her.
“Me neither,” she says. “Salty-sweet it is then.”
I let my eyes drop to parts on her body I have no business admiring as she lifts up on her toes to grab a bag of popcorn kernels from the cabinet before reaching for the canister of M&Ms she keeps on the counter.
“Air popped?” I ask when she pulls out a small little machine from under the counter. “I thought you never paidattention when your mom is spouting off conspiracy theory stuff?”
“Turns out that there may be some truth to that bagged popcorn having carcinogens in it. Can you grab the big bowl up there?”
I love it when the woman makes popcorn. Just like I’ve done a million times, I come around the counter and press my hand to her back as I reach over her head and grab the bowl she likes to use.
Like a well-oiled machine, we work around each other, her using her little air popper to make the popcorn while I measure out the exact amount of candies to be added on top. As a baker, she has a thing about rations and proper amounts. It’s one of those quirky things about her that I’ve easily adjusted to.
“Have you tried freeze drying these at the bakery?” I ask, popping a couple into my mouth.
She gives me a sad smile when she looks back at me. “The caramel ones do well, but not the plain.”
“That’s a shame,” I say, knowing the regular M&M’s are her favorite.
I pop a few more into my mouth, resisting the urge to lick at my lips as if I’m tasting the chocolate off hers.
