Page 77 of Back in the Saddle

That put this in a whole new category.

Like, stalker category.

Because I didn’t feel I could share that (yet), I let my, “Cripes,” offer my thoughts.

He lifted his glass. “That about says it.”

I reached out and wrapped my fingers around his wrist.

“We’re not toasting to that. We’re toasting to heads being out of asses.”

He chuckled. “That’s something I’ll be down to toast to.”

I let his wrist go, we clinked glasses and sipped.

The wine was yum.

Yeah.

I done good.

“Excellent.” He was purring again, and physically being with him when he did it was oh so much better.

“My poutine wore off about an hour ago, so we need to make pizza,” I informed him.

“Where did you get poutine?”

“Brunch Snob.”

“You’ll have to take me there,” he murmured, putting his glass down and turning to a bowl with a towel over it.

Isowas taking him to Brunch Snob.

He flipped the towel, and there was a perfect ball of pizza dough rising in it.

I bit my lip, because I doubted his mom taught him how to make pizza dough.

Maybe.

But doubtful.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“What?” I asked.

He came to me, rested the sides of his hands on my neck and tipped my head back with his thumbs at my jaw.

Nice move.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “She taught me how to cook. That was part of the good times we had. But once she gave me that, it became mine, Jess. Okay?”

I nodded.

“Can we be done with her?” he requested.

I nodded more fervently.

He smiled. “Great.”

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