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“Shit. I forgot; I took too long in the shower and was rushing out of here. I’m sorry.” He kisses me softly on the lips. “Will fried pickles make up for it? I stopped to pick up dinner on the way home. Ben held me up,” he explains.
“Yes, fried pickles make up for it. Thanks.” I follow him into the kitchen.
“How was lunch with Rebecca? That bad?”
Then, I realize I’m frowning. “We’re not discussing it, and I’m not talking to her anymore. I got it all out at therapy, so let’s drop it.”
“Which tells me how therapy was.”
I grab us drinks while he pulls our food out of the bags. “Yes, therapy was a venting session. How was your day?”
“Long. A bit on the shitty side. Found out one of my clients was admitted to the hospital.”
“I’m sorry. They going to be okay?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, but it just sucks that they’re there. Always makes me wonder if I missed something, or didn’t do enough.”
“You’re great at what you do, and I can say that because I know.”
His lips lift into a smile. “Thanks, Britt.” He releases a breath and changes the subject. “Excited about your birthday?”
“Yes. Do you know what will make me more excited?”
Trace leans forward. “What?”
“If you’d put your damn laundry in the basket.”
He laughs. “No, no, no.” He grabs my hand and pulls me into his lap. “You said I was forgiven. Don’t try and be mad all over again.”
“Too late,” I lie. “I’m pissed again.”
He frowns and mentally, I pat myself on the back for sounding pissed. “Britt, I,” he begins, about to go on an apology kick.
I stop him with a kiss. “Remember what you said a while back? Something about angry makeup sex?”
Trace smiles against my lips. “This is why I love you.”
“I’d believe you if you could put your laundry away.”
“I’d believe you if you could,” he pauses, thinking it over, “cook dinner once in a while.”
I laugh. “Don’t even do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like there’s not something I do that irks you.”
“There’s not.”
“Trace.”
“There’s not!” he exclaims. “I love everything about you. I love living with you. I love that you irk me.”
“So I do do something that irks you.”
“Yes, but I think my bad laundry habits irk you more.”
“Tell me what I do,” I demand.
