Page 65 of Tastes Like Summer

“Okay, so the girls can have a sleepover in Rachel’s room,” I say, carrying Diana, Cami, and Emi’s bags all in one hand into the house. “I’ve got a couple of air mattresses they can use, or if you guys want to feel like you’re glamping or something you can use a couple of sleeping bags. I just need to get them out of the attic.”

The girls giggle in excitement and run into Rachel’s room, apparently uninterested in their sleeping arrangements for now.

“Okay, then,” Diana says with a laugh.

I grin at her as I settle the bags by the door. “You will be sleeping in my room⁠—”

Diana’s eyes widen with panic, swinging both her hands in the air. “Michael, no. There’s no way⁠—”

“Calm down, Dee,” I laugh. “I’ll be sleeping on the couch—not in the bed. The thought didn’t even cross my mind.” Which isn’t exactly a lie or a truth—I sure as fuck have imagined her in my bed, but there was no way I was going to ask her to do so while the girls are under the same roof.

“Don’t be silly. I’m not going to force you out of your own bed! I should take the couch. After all, I’m smaller than you.”

“You know there’s no way in hell I’m going to let that happen, right? I would never do that. I’ll go drop your bags there, and change the sheets⁠—”

“Oh my god, at least let me do that⁠—”

“No way. I need to get out of these damp clothes that never dried, and then change the sheets. Once I’m done, I’ll cook us dinner.”

“Michael…” She sighs. “Thank you.”

Those last two words are felt deep in my bones because I know the weight behind them. I understand how difficult it is for her to accept help.

I reach out to cup her face, run my thumb over her lower lip. “Of course. Anytime. Anywhere.”

A smile plays on her lips until realization hits her. “Oh shoot. This means our date tomorrow is cancelled, isn’t it?”

I drag my fingers down her neck, over her arm, and take her hand, my eyes following their trail. She’s so soft. “Not cancelled. Just needs to be rescheduled, maybe.”

Her answering smile feels like a tight rope around my heart. Jesus, what is this feeling?

I look over her shoulder to make sure the girls are shut in Rachel’s room, the laughter coming from behind the door signaling just how unaware they are about our situation.

Taking advantage of it, I lean down and press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Let me take care of you,” I whisper, my mouth moving to her lips. “Let me be here for you and your girls tonight.”

Eyes closed, she whispers, “Yes” on a sigh.

The wind rattles Michael’s house, heavy sheets of water sluice over the shingles and fall onto the bushes below the windows. The rain coming down is too hard to even be considered relaxing white noise. If anything, it’s one of three reasons why I’m finding it impossible to sleep tonight. Why I’m so restless. The others being, of course, that I’m not at our place and that Michael, this amazing man who made sure my daughters and I were okay today, is just outside in the living room, snoozing away on the couch, when I very much want him in bed beside me. Or on me.

Either way.

Most of all, though, I want to talk to him. There hasn’t been an opportunity to do so yet, what with the girls around. We spent all night trying to hide the chemistry from them—or at least I was. After we made it to his place, I was able to calm down a bit. In his house, surrounded by him, I felt safe. Feel safe. I feel at home.

It was difficult repressing the urge to flirt back whenever he’d say something that made me blush or touched me so gently and subtly it drove me within an inch of madness, but I made it work. Thankfully, I don’t think any of the girls noticed.

And now, lying in his bed, surrounded by his scent of smoky citrus, my brain can’t help but run a marathon around itself, searching for answers and comfort. Frustrated doesn’t cover what I feel right now—physically and emotionally. I want him, yes. But I also need to talk to him. Explain why I flipped out. So with a heaving sigh, I pull the comforter off and tiptoe out of the bedroom in search of him.

“Michael?” I whisper from the living room’s doorway, suddenly incredibly aware that I’m only in my PJ shorts and tank top set.

His head pops up over the back of the couch, his blanket sliding off his chest—his bare chest—when he sits up. “Diana? What are you doing up? It’s two A.M. Is everything okay?”

“I—I’m so sorry. I’m so stupid. You’re sleeping. Of course you’d be sleeping; I don’t know how that didn’t even occur to me.” I groan and turn to go back to the bedroom, but not before he stops me.

“Wait!” he whisper-yells. “Come back. I wasn’t asleep; I was playing sudoku on my phone.”

I snort and turn back to him. “I didn’t take you for a numbers guy.”

He’s fully sitting up now, feet on the floor, a goofy, sleepy grin on his face. Even in the darkness, I can see his dimples beneath his stubble, the way his eyes shine with happiness at me even if I am showing up in the middle of the night. God, he’s so adorable.