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I smile at the youthfulness of Kate. The sheer beauty of her softness.
“No, it wasn’t,” I say, reaching for the lamp beside the bed. “We should get some sleep.”
The covers rustle in the dark as we carefully find our sleep positions; me, on my right side, and Kate lying on her back.
I’m agonizingly aware of every inch of space separating us, but there’s a sense of ease with Kate that I’m unfamiliar with. I’ve never told anyone about my weight issues. Not even Susan. But with Kate, our conversations are organic, and the idea of liking that spooks me a little.
A quiet sigh comes from Kate’s side of the bed. I’m focusing on avoiding brushing my legs against hers when I hear her soft voice.
“So, are you going to tell me how old you are, or should I just start guessing?”
Ha.Too old to offer her much more than tight hips and a side of ibuprofen with my eggs every morning.
“Thirty-five.”
I debate whether or not I want to know her age.
Part of me doesn’t care. But the other part, which is secretly afraid she’s going to say nineteen, is bargaining that I won’t need therapy for imagining her naked if I never know.
“What about you?”
She waits a beat. “Twenty-three.”
Damn.Twelve years…
“You’re just a baby,” I tease.
“And you’re a couple years from the nursing home.”
I chuckle. The warmth from her body beckons me like a tomcat in need of a sunbath.
“Go to bed, Miss Harris.”
After a moment, she rolls over. But not before she says, “Yes, sir.”
