Page 86 of Serving Bunt

Matty

Iwas burning up, and the only cure was Peter Diaz.

Sadly, time was not on our side. It had taken us more than half of the Bundt’s baking time to tour the first floor, most of which had been spent just in the sunroom turned reading nook. Diaz had insisted on going through every single shelf of my built-in bookcases, flipping through pages and teasing me mercilessly about my weird mix of romance novels and thrillers.

“Interesting taste, Alabama,” he’d said, holding up a particularly spicy why choose romance with a raised eyebrow. “Are you a kinky fucker or a serial killer?”

“Why not both?”

By the time we finally made it upstairs, I was equal parts flustered and turned on. Diaz had been complimentary the whole time. Running his hands along counters and doorframes, asking questions about finishes and layouts, genuinely impressed by the work I had done to make this house my home.

I saved my bedroom for last. Call it wishful thinking. Now, standing in the doorway, I felt strangely exposed.

This room had always been my sanctuary. I could count on one hand the number of people who had been inside it, and three of them were family members. But now, watching Diaz wander the dark wood floors, barefoot, while taking in every knickknack and tchotchke, it felt like we were nearing the edge of something big.

“This is really nice,” Diaz said, running his hand along the footboard of my platform bed. “Let me guess. You built the frame yourself?”

“Took two weeks and a lot of swearing.”

He grinned. “I can imagine.”

Fuck, it was so easy to picture him here.

Waking up tangled in my sheets, his shaved head buried in my pillow while he grumbled about the blinding morning light. Padding downstairs in nothing but a pair of sweatpants—or better yet, bare ass naked—to start the coffee before I even got out of bed. Standing at the kitchen island sneaking bites of breakfast to Mo.

Damn, she’s going to abandon me for him.

And I wouldn’t even blame her for it.

It was a kind of . . . ordinary future I had never really allowed myself to imagine with another man. With anyone, really.

Diaz caught me staring when he turned away from the window.

A slow smile spread across his face. “What?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head, unable to stop smiling back. “Those windows were the biggest pain. I ripped out the originals because they were way too small. I wanted to bring the outdoors inside.”

“They’re nice. You know, assuming you enjoy getting blasted by the sun in the morning.”

I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Believe it or not, some of us don’t live like vampires.”

Diaz barked out a laugh. The sound filled the room in a way that made my chest feel too tight.

He knew exactly what I was talking about. I’d spent enough time at his place to know he kept it like a cave—blinds drawn, lights dimmed, and thermostat permanently set somewhere between a walk-in freezer and polar vortex.

Diaz wandered further, completely at ease. He trailed his fingers along the edge of my dresser, then moved toward the walk-in closet. I stayed leaning in the doorway, watching him with a mix of amusement and nerves as he rifled through my shirts with zero shame.

“Organized by color,” he mused. “I should’ve known.”

“And occasion.”

“Do you even own a normal T-shirt?” he asked, holding up a button-down with a raised eyebrow. “Or do you just live in dress shirts?”

I scoffed. “Some of us like to look put together.”

“And some of us don’t want to die from heat stroke,” he shot back, still digging. “Please tell me there’s at least one band shirt from the early 2000s buried in here.”

I was about to tell him about the Green Day T-shirt in the bottom drawer, the one that I saved for yard work, when he stilled.