I kiss his shoulder as I pick a new bedspread, then say, “I’m proud of you for making it through most of the day with dirty sheets. Progress.”
“Ha-ha, very funny,” he states, wrestling with the fitted sheet.
I grab the other end and help. “Why did you even suggest breakfast in bed?”
He pauses to squint at me. “I was trying to be romantic.”
I smirk.
“I like cleanliness; there’s nothing wrong with that.” He shrugs.
“Are you sure? How’s your emergency stash of coasters doing?”
I toss a pillow at him, which he dodges with a grin, pretending to be annoyed but losing the act. When we finally get the sheet in place, he smooths a hand over it, checking for wrinkles. He could audition for a freaking linen commercial. I lean against the wall, arms crossed, teasing him, and I can’t stop myself from smiling. “Are we good?”
“Almost,” he says, glancing toward the nightstand. “You didn’t use a coaster this morning.”
I gasp in mock horror. “The scandal.”
He pulls me by the wrist until I stumble into his chest. “You think I’m joking, but this is why you can’t have nice things.”
“Uh-huh.” I press my cheek against the coarse hair on his bare chest, breathing him in. “I don’t know, I think you’re pretty nice.”
He laughs quietly, vibrating against my temple. “Pretty nice, yeah? I may need to up my game.”
“I wouldn’t be against that,” I murmur, smiling into him.
We head back to the front room and drop next to each other on the couch. His arm tightens around me, gentle but sure, and for a long moment neither of us moves. The TV hums faintly with the show we’ve been watching for hours, soft voices and clinking dishes filling the space between our breaths.
His chuckle rumbles against my forehead. “Did you lose the remote again?”
“I didn’t lose it. I just misplaced it. It’s all part of my diabolical plan.”
His arm tightens around me, and he presses a kiss into my hair. “You know I’m proud of you, don’t you?”
I nod against his chest, enjoying the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek. “And I’m proud of you, Mr. Architect,” I say, not wanting to tarnish this day. It feels like mine, ours, and I didn’t realize how much I needed it.
“Let’s watch people make desserts.”
“You’redessert,” I say, voice muffled against him. Then, after a beat, I ask, “What do you want to eat for dinner?”
He tilts his head, so I have to look up at him, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Let’s order in. Preserve cuddle time.”
I laugh, full and unguarded. “I think you may have gone over your daily cuddle allowance.”
“Never,” he adds, his hand under my shirt tracing patterns on my back, savoring how we’ve made time for the world to stop rushing ahead of us.
A loud buzzingrattles me awake. I reach for my pager, but strong arms keep me in place. I smell him: cedar and wintergreen.Nate.It must be some baking timer on the TV.
Nate’s breath warms my ear as he whispers, “That’ll be the food.” He shifts. “Let me get it.”
I sit up, and he stretches, clearing his throat, and rolls off the couch. The blanket drops off his back, exposing his spine and the broad line of his shoulders. When he turns to buzz the delivery in, the hair on his chest flares auburn under the soft entryway lighting. He’s moving slower than usual, still drowsy, scratching at his ribs as he pads toward the door to get the food.
I smile to myself, sinking deeper into the couch. We’ll eat and then make each other hungry all over again. Then I hear another voice.
“Hey! I thought I’d surprise you—brought you soup.”
It’s bright and familiar, too perky for the hour. Standingpastthe doorway isTessa. This blonde bombshell with deep-jade eyes and a paper bag balanced on one arm. I’ve met her twice. She’s Nate’s friend, but she isn’t mine. She’s smiling,but the expression flickers as she takes in his stomach, chest, and sleepy grin. Her eyeslinger. We’re not going to be friends tonight.
