Page 22 of Back in the Saddle

I’d always loved my couch.

Seeing Eric stretched out on it, Iadoredit.

“How far will I fall in your estimation if I unbutton my jeans?” I asked.

His lips were curved up. “Not at all. That’s the best compliment to the chef you can get.”

I snaked a hand under my tee and unbuttoned. I also needed to unzip, or better, go and put on some lounge pants, but the button would have to suffice for now.

“Better,” I mumbled.

Eric chuckled before he asked, “I picked the first movie, you get the next.”

The next.

I really didn’t want to be so happy he wasn’t leaving now that dinner, dessert and movie were done, the sun had set, and the day was winding down.

But I was happy.

“I feel like watching Jack sink to the bottom of the Atlantic,” I stated.

His lip curve stayed in place, but the feel of him shifted to that strange sensation I sensed last night when he murmured, “Dark.”

I shrugged. “That’s me.”

He said nothing, but I felt approval emanating from him.

Awesome.

And strange.

Not many guys got into my darkness.

Not many chicks did either.

But it seemed Eric did.

“So, what are your thoughts about the door?” I asked.

“The door?” he asked back.

“The door,” I repeated. “Do you think Jack could fit on it with Rose?”

His brow furrowed. “Is that a thing?”

“Hotly debated,” I verified.

“Why?”

This was a good question.

“I take it from your question, in the spirit of the day, you have no fucks to give about whether Jack could have fit on the door with Rose,” I noted.

“I can confirm I have no fucks to give about whether a fictional character could fit on a fictional door in a movie about a fictional story even if it’s based on a nonfictional event.”

I started laughing.

“Do you care?” he asked.

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