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I honestly can’t remember a time when I wanted to have and give one area so much attention.
Seriously.
No one in this relationship can bend over or stroll by too slow without someone else helping themselves to a handful.
In a sick and twisted way, it’s becoming our love language.
Except not love.
Because we’re not in love.
Because no one falls in love that fast even when all of their instincts are insisting, they already have.
That math just doesn’t math there.
And I would know.
I’m the one with a master’s degree in accounting.
During the crossing of the short distance from their small corner space to the counter where Kipp is anxiously trying to end a conversation with Mr. November, the tips of two of Nolan’s fingers, find mine to protectively curl around in an effort to wordlessly remind me that there’s never a moment I have to worry about being safe again.
Fuck, if it were only that simple.
God knows I want it to be.
Our arrival at Kipp’s side receives a small onceover that results in a sappy grin over the sight of us connected.
It’s nauseatingly adorable how much he likes seeing us together.
To my surprise, jealousy is nowhere to be found when he’s not included in a moment or gesture.
Maybe because we all have this three fuckateers mindset of one for all and all for one?
Maybe because he knows he can have either of us at the same snap of a finger no questions asked?
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because he knows our relationship with one another isn’t where that ugly emotion belongs.
Now, when we’re watching a movie and I make the mistake of mentioning how hot I think some actor is?
Well, that’s a whole other story.
Heaven forbid he’s tall, dark haired, and older.
I might as well just throw the flat screen off the balcony porch to never be used again at that point.
“I’m tellin’ you,” the brunette, late middle-aged man who has at least a good ten years on Nolan, wags his credit card in Kipp’s direction, “a storm’s a comin’.”
“You say that every time you see gray clouds for too long,” Kipp warmly argues. “You’ve been sayin’ the same shit since I was a kid.”
“You technically are still a kid,” Nolan needles with a smirk.
Kipp flashes him his middle finger, yet it doesn’t deter Mr. November from continuing, “The winds changed. It’s in the air.” He begins to tuck the rectangle object back into his wallet. “I’d know. I’m out in it every day.” His attention shifting completely downward precedes his warning. “Bloody gas stations…”
The painting of my name.
“…lost tourists…”
The braggy so-called bounty hunter.
