“I lost the word while cooking.”
“Spinach?”
“No.”
“Beans?”
Relief crossed his face.
“Yes. Beans.”
I closed the laptop.
“Are you tired?”
“I slept for three hours.”
“Headache?”
“One.”
“Hip?”
“Manageable.”
His cheeks colored before he spoke.
“I was thinking about the experiment.”
Heat moved through me.
“You were?”
“I wrote rules.”
Of course he had.
“Show me.”
He removed a folded sheet of paper from his pocket.
At the top, in precise handwriting, he had written:
TEN MINUTES.
CLOTHES REMAIN ON.
KISSING AND TOUCH ABOVE THE WAIST.
ASK BEFORE CHANGING ANYTHING.
EITHER PERSON MAY STOP.
NO APOLOGIZING.
I read the list twice.
Noah watched my face.
