“Yeah?”
He nodded.
After we’d left the ranch, we’d gone to Dusty’s and shopped for groceries for the apartment. I’d pushed the cart while he’d read ingredient labels and picked things for us. And every time I’d put junk food into the cart, he’d put it back on the shelf and told me he was trying to prolong my life.
It had been so easy. So familiar. Grocery shopping with him the first time had felt like it was already a routine. And our bickering in the aisles felt as if we’d done it a hundred times before.
It was like I was in the middle of a relationship already. One that was established, yet completely exciting.
My lids drooped.
“There it is,” he murmured, taking the mug from me. He finished the last few sips and then got up off the bed. He set the mug into the sink and then hit the main light, swaddling us in darkness.
I slithered beneath the sheets and pulled them up to my chin.
The bed dipped as Brooks crawled in next to me.
We were both on our backs, staring up at the ceiling.
“I’m not used to sharing my bed either.”
“No?” I asked, smiling in the dark.
“No.” He paused for a moment and then admitted, “There hasn’t been anyone in a really long time.”
“Oh,” I said, pleasure at his words dancing down my spine and curling in my belly. Warmth spread throughout my body.
He reached his hand out and gently patted my thigh. He gave it a hearty squeeze before letting go.
“Good night, Freckles.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Apartment
The next morning, my ringing phone jarred me awake. I cracked an eyelid as my hand went to the nightstand. I failed to grab the cell phone fully and it tumbled to the floor.
“Crap,” I muttered, hoping the screen hadn’t cracked.
I leaned over the bed and scooped up the offensively loud device, unsure of the time.
The sun was aloft and Brooks was gone.
A smile bloomed across my face when I saw the name on the screen. I pressed a button and flopped down onto my back.
“Hi Grampy.”
“Hey, sweet pea,” my grandfather said. “You sound tired.”
“I just woke up,” I admitted. “But I’m glad you called. I’ve got a lot to tell you.”
“Hang on a second.” His voice was diffused, as though he’d turned away from the speaker and was talking tosomeone else. I distinctly heardblood puddingandno thank you.
“Poet? You there?” he asked, coming back on the line.
“I’m here. Are you having an early dinner?” I asked.
“Late lunch or early dinner. How did I wake you? It’s ten a.m. in New York.”
