“What,” she says slowly, “was that about?”
I don’t move my hand from her back. “I don’t like other men touching my girlfriend.”
We haven’t discussed labels or defined what we are beyond pregnant and together and figuring it out.
“Girlfriend?”
“That’s what you are.” I hold her gaze. “Unless you have objections.”
The smile that spreads across her face is genuine. “None.”
Jasmine reaches up, settling her palm against my jaw, and brushing her thumb over the stubble I haven’t shaved.
“But Kamal is your best friend,” she says.
“Kamal is a menace who’s been calling you his future wife since he found out about us.”
Her lips twitch. “And you think I’m interested in Kamal?”
“I think Kamal is your type.”
Jasmine’s quiet for a moment. Then she rises on her toes and presses her mouth to mine. “You’re my type, Antonio” she says after ending the kiss. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
I pull her closer and breathe in the scent of her hair, letting myself forget the crisis, the sleepless night and Kamal’s ridiculous jokes.
“You came to the office,” I say finally.
“I came to break you out.” She pulls back enough to look at me properly, nose wrinkling. “You’ve been here all night. You need a shower, a meal, and at least eight hours of sleep. In that order.”
“And you’re going to make sure I get all three?”
“Someone has to.” She takes my hand, threading her fingers through mine. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
She came here without being asked, because she knew I needed her. I let her lead me toward the door, leaving behind the coffee and uneaten croissant.
We go to her apartment, not mine. I shower while she orders Thai food.
When I emerge in the gray sweatpants and t-shirt I keep at her apartment, she’s curled on the couch with the takeout containers spread across the coffee table.
“Eat,” she commands, pointing at the cushion beside her. “Then sleep.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We eat in comfortable silence. A few months ago, this would’ve been impossible. Every conversation was careful, now she steals noodles from my container without asking, and I don’t mind.
“You’ve been working insane hours. I’ve been writing insane hours. We’re both exhausted.” She shifts to face me, tucking her legs beneath her. “We need to do something that isn’t productive. Something completely pointless and fun.”
“What did you have in mind?”
She reaches for the controller on the coffee table. “I want to play your game.”
I blink. “Dragonstrike?”
“Unless you’re scared.”
“Of playing my own game against a romance author? Please.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m staring at the screen in disbelief.
