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She crinkled her nose. “Maybe.”
He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Maybe you should just say it.”
When she had started dating Hunter, she’d been a kid in college, and the relationship evolved in the way college relationships did, with parties on the weekends and lunches in the cafeteria between classes. They were simply together and didn’t have to have that weird What are we? conversation.
And she didn’t know how to bring it up with the man who had his hands inching under her sweater. Especially now that they had to go in reverse, from talking about theoretical children to what was even possible between them. “I, uh, was wondering…”
“Wondering how I feel about you?” He ducked his head, waiting until she met his gaze. “It’s pretty simple. I want you. To myself. For the foreseeable future.”
Bronte eyed him. “And I want you to tell me if you’re some kind of psychic or not.”
“Not psychic.” He kissed her cheek. “Only able to read you pretty well.” Then he kissed her other cheek. “Like you can with me. What do you think I’m thinking right now?”
She pursed her lips, tilting her head side to side. “You’re thinking how you should’ve added a touch more salt to the lasagna.”
He playfully nipped at her lips. “Try again.”
“Hmm? Your feet are cold with no socks on.”
He leaned in, bending her back a bit over the counter. “Nope. I’m real warm.”
“Hmm.” She slipped her right hand between them and cupped the hard outline of him through his jeans. “You’re thinking maybe I should stop playing around and kiss you already.”
“Bingo.”
Gripping him hard, she kissed him, trying to express what she felt for him. She didn’t know the word that described this emotion, this innate rightness. Like they were meant to be.
What she did know was how his stomach muscles tensed under her hand when she scratched lightly at his skin. He wrapped his hands tenderly around her jaw, even while his kisses were biting and rough. And when they broke apart, he pressed his palms against her cheek, his thumbs caressing her there. As his gaze bored down on her, she knew from the look in his eyes, this was real. This was it.
The timer dinged on the oven, and Chris slowly let go of her before opening the door to retrieve his homemade lasagna.
“Smells delicious,” Bronte said as a car honked twice outside.
“Right in time.” He carefully moved the dish to the counter, hearing car doors shut out front. “That must be your dad.”
* * *
Steven slowly trudgedup the sidewalk with Chris and Bronte on each side as Pattie opened the front door for them.
“How do you feel?” Chris asked, steadying him on the steps.
“Like I went ten rounds with Hemingway.”
“Hemingway?”
“Ernest Hemingway was an amateur boxer,” Steven explained with a slight wince as he stepped through the doorframe and took off his coat.
Pattie chided him. “You need to slow down. Let Bronte and Chris help you.”
He ignored her and waved off Chris’s offer to help him sit in his recliner. “He had a ring in his backyard.”
Chris cocked his head. “Who?”
“Ernest Hemingway,” Pattie said and pointed a finger at her husband. “The doctor said you need to take it easy for a few days, build your strength and stamina back up.”
“Yes, Patricia.”
She dropped a begrudging kiss on the top of his head. “I’m going to clean up a little, and then I’ll start dinner.”
