Page 30 of Stuck with Me

“Moretti?” she murmurs into the hush of the space around us.

This is it. The request I’ve been waiting for. The invitation to release this tension that’s been building between us for the past two days.

Ding!

I whip my attention at the oven, then return my focus on her, brows raised.

“Oven is finally preheated,” she explains in a quiet mumble.

She gives me a pitiful smile and leans back. And I know, our moment has passed. It’s just as well. I don’t know what the hell we were thinking.

I exhale a low sigh, release my grip from the counter, and back away from her. “That was…intense.”

She hops down and tends to the dough. “And dumb as fuck.”

“Right,” I agree, pushing my hands through my hair.

“It’s obviously been too long since either of us have had sex,” she says, her cheeks blushing.

“Too fucking long,” I groan.

“Could you imagine? The two of us?” Rosalie bursts out laughing as she puts the cinnamon rolls in the oven.

I clench my teeth. It’s not the craziest idea in the world. But it would be the dumbest.

“I’m going to go unpack.”

“And I’m gonna go stick my head in the oven,” she says, her tone teasing.

But then how come I feel like the jackass?

I go into the bedroom and drop down on the edge of the bed and text Hayden.

ME

For just this once can you be the kind of friend who tells me to lock myself in my bedroom?

HAYDEN

Ohhh shit. What happened?

ME

Let’s just say we almost mixed pleasure with our business.

HAYDEN

You know I’m not gonna be that friend. And that’s exactly why you text me and not someone else.

He’s right. It’s like I need someone to give me permission. To tell me that it’s okay to give in just this once. To do something I want to do. To do something for myself.

I flop back on the bed and throw my arm across my face and try to wait out these painful as-shit blue balls.

After I hear the oven ding, I stay in my room for a while longer. But I can only scroll through Instagram for so long. When it feels safe, I shuffle back down the hall and the scent of cinnamon wafting in the air is like heaven. There’s still music playing softly. Rosalie is hanging up a white sheet across the bookcases in the living room.

My gut tenses at the sight. The woman probably already sprained her wrist tonight and now she’s standing on a chair.

“What the hell are you doing? Let me help you.” I hold one end of the sheet while she anchors it with the pin.

---