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I nod. Tiny and jerky.
The smell hits me the second he twists the top of the jar. Unnervingly sweet, with an unusual spiciness to it that tightens something in the back of my neck. His face is serious as he dips two fingers into the clear jelly, then pulls in a deep breath.
The first touch of his greased-up fingers is kinda nice. Cool. Gentle.Soothing.
And then the burn starts.
Five minutes later, I’m lying flat out on the couch, my dressing gown barely covering anything, my fingers digging so hard into the cushions below me I’m pretty sure there’ll be nail-shaped holes in them when I’m done. He wasn’t lying. It goddamn kills. Like belly flopping into lava. Like cuddling the sun. I cursed him. Kicked him. Then finally convinced him to give me a few minutes to suffer alone with dignity.
Breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut. Suck in air through my nose. Pant it back out through my mouth. Then repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Whining like a dying dog until, finally, little by little the burning sensation eases.
I sit up carefully and check that I’ve still got skin. I do. It’s greasy and it smells like some sort of spicy marzipan, but it’s there. And it’s no longer red—no longer even pink.
“You good?”
I jerk my dressing gown closed and turn towards Mylo’s voice.
He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, a mug in each hand, whipped cream dripping down his knuckles.
“You made cocoa?”
“I tried.” He holds the mugs up with a grimace. “Never used cream from a can before.”
I can’t help but grin at the bashful frown creasing his face. “You’ve never tried whipped cream? You’ve been missing out.” I shuffle back into the sofa cushions, curling my feet under my bum.
Stiff like it’s a couple of grenades in his hands, he walks carefully across the space and hands me the big one, keeping the small white mug for himself.
Now that the drama of scalding skin and burn ointment is over, awkwardness wraps around me like a prickly blanket of… well… awkwardness. He lowers his big body down onto my sofa and places his hot chocolate, overflowing with cream, onto the table in front of him without trying it. “How’s the burn?”
I glance down. “It’s still throbbing a bit, but the stinging has stopped. Thank you.” I wrinkle my nose, swipe a blob of cream from my mug and lick it off my finger, just like I’ve done since I was a kid. “I’m sorry my pot avalanche woke you.”
He snorts and shakes his head, his attention dropping to my mouth. “I was awake.”
“You were awake?” I wrinkle my forehead. “Why, don’t you sleep?”
He shakes his head and drags his gaze back up to my eyes. “A side-effect of my Marine days, I guess.” His jaw ticks, brows lowering. “Late to bed, early to rise.”
I nod and lift my mug to blow on the chocolaty milk before taking a sip. He’s not even touched his yet. “Try the cream before it melts.”
His eyebrows tip up in the middle as he looks at the rapidly melting swirl of cream that tops his mug. “Do I drink it, or eat it?”
“Are you seriously telling me you’ve never had hot chocolate with cream before?” My awkwardness slips away, and I place my own mug onto the table so I can shift closer to him on the sofa. “So many options, man. I’m a finger dipper. But you can spoon it off, mix it in, drink it as is, but risk getting it up your nose.”
“In my house we just threw a few marshmallows in our cocoa.”
“Barbarians.” I lean forward. “Try it.”
The second he dips one of his huge fingers into the fluffy white cloud of cream, then sucks it into his mouth I realize that this was a mistake. My face warms, my gaze is glued to his lips when a gruff groan rips from him and his eyes drift closed. “S’good.Realgood.”
A vision of him. And me. And a whole lot of whipped cream has me blowing out a steadying breath. “Told you.” I clear my throat and take a sip, looking anywhere but where he’s swiped another finger-full of cream from his mug. Not interested. He’s not interested. And neither am I. Man-ban.MAN-BAN.
FOUR
Mylo
My nose twitches. Tickles. Eyes closed, I brush at it with the back of my hand, then let it drop down to my side. Smooth skin warms my palm. I peel my eyelids open, my eyes still hazy with the deepest, most dreamless sleep I’ve managed in a long time.
A soft snore. A sleepy mumble. Warm breath on my neck.
