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I run my hand over the couch cushion and smile as a memory hits me.
Gage begged his parents for years to move into the loft, and they always said no. They planned on renting it out. That decision changed when his mother died. When he asked six months later, his dad Amos finally agreed even though I could see on his face that he wanted to say no. Amos feared to be alone, and only agreed because his heart broke for his son losing his mother too soon.
This loft is where we spent most of our time together. The bed is the one I lost my virginity in. This is the same couch where I gave him a blow job for the first time.
Memories surround me.
Yes, most definitely a mistake.
To put my mind on something else, I hop off the couch, open a cabinet, and unpack the bag of groceries sitting on the counter. I start making the only thing I know how to concoct from scratch. The asshole on a date with another woman is on my mind while I cut the chicken breasts. I wonder where he took her for dinner—hell, if they even had dinner—when I dice the peppers, and I curse them both while pulling out the Dutch oven.
* * *
I hatemyself for the relief I get when the headlights of Gage’s truck shine through the window. No night cuddling and breakfast the next morning for his date. I inch forward and slowly peel the curtains back, hoping he doesn’t notice me in stalker mode.
He looks up, meets my eyes, and grins.
Of freaking course.
I run away from the window, pause the TV, and shut the lamp off. Maybe he’ll think I’m going to bed. The faint sound of a knock on the door echoes through the room, and I debate on whether to answer it. A groan leaves my throat while I pull myself up and check the peephole before answering, just in case his date is with him and he wants to rub it in my face.
“Can I come in?” he asks when I open the door.
I peek out, checking that he’s alone, while he waits for me to invite him in like a vampire from a horror movie.
All clear.
No date.
No sex mate.
Unfortunately, he looks like sex. Smells like sex, too.
I should shut the door in his face, but dude is letting me stay in his loft, so I take a step back, a silent yes. I won’t admit that the urge to hang out and question him about his date tonight is biting at me.
“You settling in okay?” he asks.
Yes, if you don’t count my anxiety-induced cooking to punch out the thoughts of you with another woman.
He still looks good, but his shirt is wrinkled at the bottom, evidence that there was a hand pulling at it. His hair is rustled, the messy look maybe brought on by another woman.
“For the most part,” I say, turning on the light and stepping into the kitchen. “Not that I have much to settle in. The insurance company is giving me a hard time since Ronnie is accusing me of arson. No money for me until the investigation is complete.”
“I’ll have a look and try to speed up the process.” He looks across the kitchen, his head tilting up. “Is that gumbo?”
Crap.
“Yep.”
Don’t remember. Don’t remember.
“You know that’s my favorite.”
Busted and mistrusted.
“Is it? I had no idea.”
He raises a disbelieving eyebrow.
