Except it already has. Because I can still feel his hands on my jaw, the calluses on his thumbs from years of gripping hockey sticks, and the way his forehead dropped to mine afterward like he needed to stay close or he'd fall apart.
God. The way helookedat me.
Not at my body. Not past me to something more interesting. Not through me like I was furniture, the way Daniel used to.
Atme.
"MOM. Oh myGod!"
I jump, sloshing coffee over the rim of my mug. "What?!"
"I said, can you sign my permission slip? Field trip to the nature center next week." Morgan is waving a crumpled piece of paper at me while simultaneously pouring milk into her cereal with her other hand. "Mrs. Briggs says if it's late again, she's calling you."
"She wouldn't dare."
"She absolutely would. She called Tyler's mom last week and Tyler said his mom cried when she hung up."
"Well, for your information, I'd love to give thatMrs. Briggsa piece of my mind." I snatch the permission slip, scrawl my signature with a flick of the pen, and shove it back across the table. "There. Signed."
Morgan studies me for another three seconds, then shrugs and starts eating.
I exhale, thinking I've escaped.
"It's Colt, isn't it."
Damn this child.
"Morgan, please. It's early and—"
"It's fine, Mom." She crunches through a mouthful of cereal, chewing with her mouth so wide open I could conduct a full dental exam. "I'm just saying. You look happy. It's nice."
Something warm and terrifying blooms deep inside.
Before I can figure out what to say to that, a sound from downstairs makes us both freeze and look towards the top of the stairs.
Morgan's eyes go wide, and her spoon freezes halfway to her mouth.
"He'searly!"
I slap a hand to my forehead.Fuck.I don't even have time to change.
"Go brush your teeth!"
Morgan bounces to the bathroom and I catch my reflection in the mirror across the messy apartment.
I'm still in my ancient sleep shirt, the one with the faded cartoon muffin on the front that saysI LOAF YOU, and a pair of cotton shorts that barely qualify as clothing.
My hair is still a bird's nest and my face is bare of make up. Even my legs are completely exposed from mid-thigh down.
And now Colt Lane is standing in my bakery.
I grab my robe off the back of the chair, knot it tight, and shove a hand through the disaster on my head. Maybe it's a badger.Pleaselet it be a badger. A raccoon. A possum with rabies.
Anything but the man whose mouth I haven't stopped thinking about since yesterday.
I pad toward the stairs, and of course, he's standing there in a Snow Leopards jacket that's unzipped over a white tee. His sandy hair is perfectly styled, and those blue eyes find me the instant I appear at the bottom of the stairs.
They travel down. Slowly.
