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He lifted the fabric from the counter. “I’m gonna jump in the shower real quick, then I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks,” I repeated.
Really, I couldn’t thank Noah for enough things. He always helped cover my ass.
That’s what best-bros-slash-roommates were for, after all.
When he disappeared, I felt the overwhelming loneliness press down on me like water pressure.
I needed music…
But Grace was still sleeping, and I didn’t want to disturb her. Waking an anxiety-prone person from sleep sometimes triggered an attack.
That was something I learned the hard way.
The omelets sizzled in the pan, the strips of bacon whispered to each other in another, and then the English Muffins popped out from the toaster.
I heard a creak in the floor and looked up.
There, standing in my doorway was thesexiest fucking thingI’d ever seen:
Grace. Grace, and Grace.
She looked like walking sex wearing one of my clean white button-downs with her long, creamy legs poking out the bottom. Her dark hair hung around her pale face in messy, tangled locks and black eye makeup peppered her lower lids.
She looked thoroughly ravaged.
I’d done that.
Pride swelled in my chest and I ran my tongue along my teeth, the silver ball clattering on every tooth.
She blinked sleepily, adorably, and sniffed the air. “Is something burning?”
“Hm?” I asked, still in a daze. Then my gaze snapped down to the bacon. “Oh! Well—well yes, I like my bacon burnt,” I said, furiously plucking at the blackening strips with the tongs, then muttered, “Fucking third-degree…”
Grace giggled, the light and bubbly sound filling the space with light.
The sound lit up the dark spaces in my head; made the shadows shrink.
I smiled warmly at her. Here in the bright, dazzling morning light in my white shirt like that, she looked like a fucking angel or something.
A very naughty, debauched angel.
I scrambled for something to say to make her stay, but I forgot everything. “Breakfast?”
Her face lit up. “How kind of you! I didn’t expect…”
Grace tucked a dark lock of hair behind her ear nervously.
Her presence made the words appear in the air clearer, like snowflakes. I could catch them on my tongue and use it to paint the sounds. “Your expectation is a ramification of past associations. All disappointing.”
She furrowed her brow, amused. “You don’t even know—”
“I do,” I said with a wave of my hand.
She paled.
I bit my tongue, literally, holding the silver ball in place. That’s why I got this thing, after all; to make it physically possible for me to shut myself up. Even though I could see more words fluttering and shifting on the edges of my vision, longing to be woven into the conversation. When it was just me and the boys, I could let loose. But with women—especially women I wanted to keep coming back, I had to hold back.
