By the end of that evening she had hugged me tightly, making sure I knew I was now part of that protected circle of hers.
Since then we had had many double dates, and sometimes me and her went to gallery openings on our own. Despite our rocky start, I was happy to have Viv in my life.
With the shop thriving, I had to hire staff, which gave me the freedom to manage things from afar, only popping in once or twice a week. My social anxiety had a field day. We kept the houseboat in case the city ever called. And just recently, I’d started outsourcing locations for a second Skye’s in Chicago.
John’s hands slipped under my sweater, over the ink I’d added over the last year. All thoughts of farmers’ markets and dinner disappeared. I could only focus on the heat of John’sbody against mine—soft bits to hard bits. Headily familiar and exciting at the same time.
I freed the poor man from his sweater, replacing the fabric with kisses. His hand slipped up my neck and into my hair, tugging my head back, angling my mouth to his until the edges of my lips became sore. I loved it. My fingers found their way into the back of his pants, cupping his ass, squeezing once for emphasis. He laughed, the sound a sizzling vibration that tickled my chest. After all this time, I was still starving for him. I nibbled on his skin, planting small bites along his collarbone, rocking my hips against his hand.
“Nora,” he breathed into my ear, and my insides turned to a hot pool.
Suddenly, a sharp, screeching noise tore through the room.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pulling away. That’s when I noticed the smoke around us.
The fire alarm blared, its sound drilling into my eardrums.
I ran to open the windows, letting the cold air rush in. Queequeg hadn’t even stirred. I nudged him with my foot to make sure he was still breathing. He purred in confirmation.
John pulled a sheet of now-burnt mini strudels out of the oven, dropping them into the sink with a hiss.
He swore a string of words better not repeated.
“Ah shucks. I was looking forward to dessert,” I said, hugging him from behind. “I guess you’ll have to do.”
But John seemed more upset by the burnt dessert than was warranted.
“Hey, I don’t care.” I tugged on his arm to turn him around, wrapping my hands around the back of his neck.
“Where were we?” I leaned in to kiss him again, but he gently pushed me away. “What? Oh no, are you tired of me already? Are we over? Is this it?”
John laughed, holding onto both my hands. “There is no chance I’ll be tired of you anytime soon.”
“Good. Then why are you so upset?”
He sighed, grabbed a dishtowel, and wrapped it around one of the strudels. “Would you try this for me?”
I took a step back. “You love me so much that you want me to get food poisoning?” I crossed my arms and gave him a mock stern look.
He placed the strudel on the table and put his shirt back on. I scowled. It should be considered a crime to hide these goods.
A spoon appeared in front of me. “I originally wanted to do this tomorrow, but I know you’re not the biggest fan of public scenes.”
This was an understatement. The video from the comic con had gone viral. It had been turned into countless TikToks and even inspired its own fan fiction, where I was usually replaced by a teenage girl meeting her author crush. Since then, I'd been avoiding the public eye—until tomorrow. Shortly after the convention, John received the news that the movie rights for his bookTwo Truths and A Liehad been sold to a major streaming service. Tomorrow was the premiere, a.k.a. our first official outing as a couple. Now, I had a fancy dress hanging upstairs, waiting to be photographed.
I took the spoon from him. “You really want me to eat this?”
He sucked in a breath, then chewed on his lip. “Maybe not eat, but just dig in.” He slipped his hands into his pockets, then thought better of it, lighting the candle on the table before returning his hands to his pockets.
“You’re acting weird.”
He hung his head. “Please.”
“Okay, Mr. Weirdo.” I poked the spoon into the now-black dessert, surprised that the middle still looked edible. Maybe I could taste just a little...
“No, don’t actually eat it. Just poke it a little,” he said, holding out both his hands, as if this wasn’t the weirdest thing anyone had ever asked me to do.
“Are you having a stroke?”
