Page 79 of Back in the Saddle

“Yeah,” I answered in an understatement.

He started up the movie and rested his head on some toss pillows he bunched there.

I rested my head on his biceps.

They weren’t fluffy.

But they feltnice.

Halfway through the movie, he shifted to his back, sliding me on top of him. His head was still on the pillows, and mine was on his chest, the rest of my body covering the length of him, and his hand at the small of my back. This wasso much better.

Not only because he felt good and smelled good, but also because, when he laughed, which he did, a lot (the movie was funny, and I was glad he thought so), I heard itandfelt it.

When the credits were rolling, I lifted my head and looked down at his profile since his head was turned on the pillows to see the TV.

It wasn’t as good as full face, but it was still gorgeous.

He turned to look at me.

Yeah. The profile was fantastic.

But this was better.

“Did you by chance make dessert?” I asked.

“No, but I scored a quart of Lotus cookie ice cream from Frost.”

I was a kickass bee-yotch. Not the kind of woman to let my eyes go happy round with excitement over yummy ice cream.

But I knew with the satisfied smile he had on his face, I’d let my eyes go happy round with excitement.

What was not exciting was, when he angled up, taking me with him, he was no longer my couch. Instead, I was on my feet, my hand held, being pulled to the kitchen.

Why did I ask about dessert?

Why?

He grabbed the gelato and put it in the microwave for twenty seconds to soften it (full approval) as I asked, “Bowls?”

“Cabinet above the dishwasher.”

I headed there, grabbed the bowls and came back.

I put the bowls down where he was standing with the gelato quart, and he’d managed to unearth an ice cream scoop during my long (and it was long) trek across his huge-ass kitchen.

He looked at the bowls.

He looked at me. “Those are pasta bowls.”

“Your point?”

He busted out laughing, dropping the scoop and taking hold of me.

I was plastered to his front, one of his arms around my waist, the other hand entwined in my hair. So, obviously, I had to wind my arms around his shoulders.

“It’s only a quart,” he murmured.

“File it away for future reference, big man, I’m a my-own-quart kind of woman.”

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