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He snuggled into me, planting a soft kiss against my lips.
He smiled. "Good morning." His eyes fluttered gently. Early morning cuteness suited him.
"Good morning," I murmured back.
He settled on the couch next to me. "So, what was happening on House and Hoarders before you turned it off so abruptly? What, you think I didn’t see?"
"Wait. How do you know that show?"
He smirked. "I have a thing for British accents…and mind-numbing reality TV. I’m kinda addicted to the show."
I let out a chuckle. "Really? Good to know...on both fronts. Seeing, as you know, I’m British…and I love trashy TV, too." Why I was stating the blatantly obvious, I didn’t know. I attributed it to lack of caffeine and being intoxicated by the gorgeous creature pressing his warm body against me on the couch.
His eyes lit up. "You do? What shows do you watch?"
"I’m not into anything too commercial. No Kardashians for me, thank you very much," I began, sounding way too sanctimonious for a way too silly conversation like the one we were having.
His lips stretched. "Same. I like…weirder shows. And they have to be British."
I lifted an eyebrow. "Always?"
"Always."
I prattled off a number of the shows I was tragically addicted to—Swamp People, American Pickers, Oops, I Shouldn’t Have Put That In My…, It’s Me or My Cousin—Mitchell’s smile only grew wider and wider until I couldn't take it anymore.
"Are you laughing at me?"
He raised his hands by the sides of his pretty face. "I’m not, I swear"—I could barely pay attention to what he was saying, finding myself too distracted by the way his Adam’s apple bobbed around in his throat—"it’s just that all those shows you listed are American."
"Huh, I guess they are." I settled back into the couch. "I guess we’re attracted to things that are different, which is why you like British shows and I like the American stuff."
He rubbed his hand across my chest, sending a warm sizzle shooting up my spine. "Do you know what makes House and Hoarders even better?"
I shook my head. "No idea."
Ten minutes later, I had my answer.
And Mitchell was right. Chowing down into a room-service-ordered helping of ice cream did make the show better.
Oh, and maybe having him happily slurping away next to me, yelling out at the TV screen like I thought I was the only one who did, might have had something to do with it, too.
I glanced over at the clock on the wall. It was almost eight. "What time are you leaving?" I hated asking and knew I’d hate hearing him answer even more.
He placed his empty bowl onto the coffee table. "My flight’s at noon, so I need to leave here by about ten, I guess." The sadness underpinning his words physically hurt me.
I didn’t want him to leave, but what could I do?
"I guess you should start packing then, right?" Quite possibly the worst thing to say, given how intently Mitchell’s eyes were boring into me.
His lips formed a tight thin line. "Yeah, I should."
We both got up, and I headed toward the door.
"This isn’t goodbye," he blurted out.
We stood by the door, my fingers grazing the golden hairs that lined his forearm. "We have to see each other at least once more before I go."
The pleading in his voice was only getting stronger.
