Page 46 of Until Then

He makes a huffing noise, but that’s the extent of his argument. I take it as a win, since he remains steady and doesn’t fight me as I continue my work. His attention stays fixed on me as I spread a thick layer over his skin, making it hard to ignore how close our bodies are in this tiny hall bathroom. He’s propped up against the sink, and there are only a few inches between his chest and mine. I have no doubt my nipples are hard, since our proximity is all I can think about. Dammit, why didn’t I put a bra on after my shower?

As if he heard me cursing myself, he lowers his gaze to mychest before quickly looking away. His Adam’s apple bobs when he clears his throat.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him it’s okay to look. That Iwanthim to look, but the fear of rejection keeps the words at bay. I can handle it when a guy isn’t into me, but I’m not sure I could handle it ifthisguy wasn’t into me.

When I’m finished with the mask, I step to my left and wash my hands. The move, unfortunately, brings us elbow to elbow and hip to hip. Unless he moves, there’s no way around it. “All done,” I whisper softly.

Finally, he straightens and moves past me, but not until after he gives my hip a soft pinch. “My face better be as smooth as a baby’s butt after this.”

Laughing, I dry my hands on the towel that hangs from the ring on the wall. “I’m not sure about that, but your pores will lookfantastic.”

“That’ll have to be enough, I guess.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

As I turn, I find him standing in the doorway, blocking my exit, and my stupid, treacherous mind wonders what it would be like if he leaned down and kissed me. Backed me up against the sink and lifted me onto the counter. His mouth on mine. His hands on my skin. His scent invading my nose.

I have to bite my lip to keep a moan from escaping.

I desperately need my vibrator, but that will have to wait.

Finally, after an awkward moment of silence, he moves away from the door, taking my fantasy with him and down the stairs.

I count to thirty before I follow.

“Popcorn?” I ask, already pulling a box out of the pantry.

“Sure.” He picks up a piece of homemade pizza we haven’t cleaned up yet and takes a bite. He insisted he wasn’t going tolike the feta and apple flatbread pizza, but then devoured his in its entirety.

“That’smypiece,” I scold him, but there’s no malice in my tone. Only pure amusement. The man still doubts me in the kitchen, but with any luck, he’ll change his mind soon. Except for the tofu tacos last week, he’s enjoyed all the meals I’ve made.

He smiles and takes another bite. “Do you ever film cooking videos on your channel?”

“No.” I stick the popcorn bag into the microwave and push the button, then turn back to him. With my elbows propped on the island, I rest my chin in my hands. “Cooking is for me. I don’t want to make it feel like a job. Setting up a camera and talking through every step, then editing and blah, blah, blah? That’s like work, and I don’t want to risk ruining something I love.”

Brows lowered, he lets out a thoughtful hum. “I never thought about that—how whatever you film, even if it’s something you’ve always loved, becomes a job.”

“I keep certain things to myself,” I admit, tapping my nails against my cheek. “I cherish them more because they’re only for me. I was thinking…” I wet my lips, working up the nerve to broach this subject. “If you’re cool with me filming a project for my channel—you never gave me an answer when I asked—would you also be willing to let me help with design choices?”

He gives a gruff laugh, pulling out a kitchen chair. He plops into it and crosses his arms. The light above the table bathes him in an orange glow. “I’m not HGTV, Izzy.”

“I know. But I…”

He doesn’t let me flounder for words long. “Film, help, do whatever you want.”

Hope blooms in my chest. For the first time in months, genuine excitement consumes me.

It’s tempered a fraction when the microwave chimes. So I pull it out, tear the bag open, and dump the contents into the large bowl.

“Want any other snacks?” Derrick asks. “I made brownies.”

I freeze, bowl clutched to my chest, breath catching. “Brownies? When?”

“While you were taking a nap.”

“And you’re just now telling me?” I chastise teasingly. “Blasphemous.”

A tiny grin spreads his lips. “I’ll grab them.”

While he does that, I scurry into the family room with the popcorn and get comfortable. My couch in LA is for show rather than comfort. It never bothered me before now. I’ve played into that lifestyle for so long that I never considered choosing furniture with different priorities in mind. But that’s just one of many things about my life that have left me unsatisfied. I don’t regret my career or my move to LA. It was the right move for me at the time, and the location was the right place to be for my goals. But I’ve outgrown it.

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