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I used to feel exactly the same, when I had somebody to love.
I’m not going to let anyone look down their nose at Sullivan and what he’s managed to protect.
“See you tomorrow,” I tell Angus, closing the car door in his face.
I already texted Sullivan to let him know I wouldn’t need him to pick me up.
As soon as I walk inside, I can tell that I beat him home. The house has a stale silence that can only mean I’m alone.
Starved from missing lunch, I head straight to the kitchen and start pulling things out of the fridge. I go full werewolf when I see the steaks, stomach growling and mouth instantly drooling.
I fire up the grill on the back porch, chopping up veggies and skewering them on bamboo sticks, brushing pineapple wedges in butter and brown sugar.
Cooking in Sullivan’s kitchen is a blast—so much more fun than in my tiny apartment. It’s a pleasure to spread everything out on the countertops, to use his matching set of bowls, practically untouched.
I play some music on the speaker, “High” by Stephen Sanchez because that’s how I’m feeling right now.
The stress of the day falls away. I spin around in all that space, sashaying across the aisleways of that big, bright kitchen.
I can take all the time in the world with these lovely ingredients at my fingertips…
If paradise is having everything you desire, exactly the way you want it, then for the next hour, I’m in paradise.
I get the neat little hibachi smoking. Soon the scent of grilled meat and caramelized pineapple drifts across the yard.
Sullivan comes out the back door, sniffing the air like one of those cartoon characters carried along by a delicious smell.
I light up when I see him. I’m like a kid, proud of what I have to show and tell—all this food and good news as well.
He flashes his bright white smile at me. “Theo, if you keep this up, I’m never going to let you go…”
Promises, promises.
“I’m not going anywhere.” I pop a piece of pineapple in my mouth. “I’m moving into your fridge.”
It would be a crime to leave before I sample those mission figs. Or that espresso cheese…
I hold out the last cube of pineapple to Sullivan. This is the most perfect piece. You can tell when I hold it up to the sun—every cell is saturated with golden juice.
His mouth shocks me, swooping in to snatch it off my fingers. I gasp at the sudden warmth of his lips around my fingertips.
All my insides go liquid and my thighs press together, sudden and hot. Why does that happen, where one thing feels like another? My face burns.
Sullivan crushes the pineapple against the roof of his mouth with his tongue. His whole face lights up, and heat bursts in my chest like a firework.
“Well, if that’s not the best goddamned pineapple I ever ate…”
“You bought it.”
“I’m great at buying food.” He winks at me. “What I need is someone to make sure I don’t ruin it.”
Why does he flirt with me at home?
Maybe he can’t turn it off.
It’s like asking a bird not to fly or a bee not to sting. Sullivan is sexy.
I am not.
