Page 68 of Hearts on the Line

“Always.”

She laughs and walks over, wiping her finger through the flour I haven’t cleaned up yet.

“Tough day?”

“Feels like it lately. Happy to see you.” I spin around.

“What do you want to drink?” She almost floats to the fridge, but I stop her.

“The good stuff is in there.” I point to the bottom cabinet near the stove.

“I’ve sworn off tequila. Remember?”

“Add that to the list. No rum, now no tequila.”

She pauses, kneeling down beside me on the floor. Her eyes meet mine, and the memory of her on her knees in the shower last night flashes through my mind. Maybe my face doesn’t do a good job of hiding that because she clears her throat and pulls out bottles of gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth. “Ever had a Negroni?”

“No.”

“I’m going to blow your mind then. You have an orange, right? Swore I saw one…” She stands up and trips over the throw rug I have in front of the stove.

I toss down my tongs and reach for her, catching her just in time to avoid her face smacking into the cast-iron pan. “Okay?” I ask, my arms braced on hers.

For a second, she looks a bit dazed, then shakes her head slightly like she’s trying to organize her thoughts, and I get it.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi.” My voice is rough, tentative, because I’m not…

Her lips press against mine in a quick kiss before she steps back, staring at my mouth.

I make sure she has her balance, then move aside, trying to ignore the fact that I remember what this version of Sloane tastes like now, know that small sigh she makes as I move my mouth over hers, hungry for more.

Maybe that’s the wrong thing to do. The silence bubbles between us, so I finish up dinner while she mixes drinks, and for a second, I think she must have been a bartender with the way she so casually puts everything together.

But that’s Sloane, too, isn’t it? Always perfect at everything she does.

“Where did you learn to bartend?” I ask.

She grabs an orange, roots around the silverware drawer, then begins peeling it in a perfect spiral. I remove the chicken from the pan to rest, then deglaze it with some chicken stock and toss in some diced shallots and the halved cherry tomatoes.

“Been to a lot of hotel minibars.”

“Traveling for work? Freelance, right?”

I don’t have the guts to look at her while I ask. I’m too afraid to see that light in her eyes that’s there when she talks about something she really loves. The things that matter. I don’t want to see it if it’s there. I like pretending that for now, Merritt Point and I are enough, even if it’s just temporary.

Maybe I’m warming up to being temporary, too, if it means I can have another taste of her.

“Freelance and contract. I wrote whatever they were willing to pay me to write.”

She twists the peel, and from the corner of my eye, I see the spray of the oils hit the air and brush against the sliver of skin at her waist between her tank top and her skirt.

And now that’s my sole focus. I can think only of tasting the salt of her skin and the orange, of licking away that line with my hands caging her ribs.

“That sounds…” I search for the right word. “Glad you found something you love.”

“Who said I love it?”