Page 58 of Drop the Mitts

"Is it something with your upbringing? Daddy issues?"

Grace turned her head. "I never said I didn't like younger men, only immature ones."

André wet his lips. "Right. Sorry, I misunderstood."

"Are you really making MILF Island about you right now?" She swivelled on the bed and leaned forward.

Elbows up."Hey, I've never made your age a thing. That's all you."

"André, our age difference is the last reason you and I would never work."

"What's the first?"

"Uh, try the fact that we can't even sit and watch an episode of the stupidest reality show ever without getting into a fight."

"This isn't a fight. It's an inquiry."

"I don't usually interrogate my boyfriends."

André lowered the volume and turned to look at her. "What do you do with them, then?"

A knock sounded at the door. “Room service,” came the muffled voice.

André stood, stretching, knowing full well his shirt lifted above his waistline. Grace's eyes snapped back to the TV. Andre opened the door and brought in the tray. He walked to the bed and set it down between them, then sat back in his spot. The scent of melted cheese, seasoned beef, and herbs filled the room as he lifted the first plastic lid.

André dug in. He was starving and had a morning practice plus a doubleheader tomorrow evening. He needed to eat at least six thousand calories by noon.

He watched Grace out of the corner of his eye. She didn't reach for anything, and for a moment, he wondered if he'd misjudged. Hecouldfinish everything on the plates in front of them himself, but he didn't especially want to. Not while she sat there and watched.

He grabbed a slider, painfully aware of every second she didn't move. But then, finally, she reached for a marinated olive and popped it into her mouth. He didn’t grin. Not outwardly. But a small amount of satisfaction settled deep in his chest. Grace was like a cat—skittish, proud, and far too good at pretending not to be interested until you stopped trying.

She chewed, her back straight as a board, ankles crossed, posture all defence. Buttoned-up to the point of implosion. It made him want to rattle her. Especially when she licked her bottom lip after finally taking a bite of the nachos.

What would she look like experiencing pleasure? Would she let herself go then? Would she turn to putty? Would she talk to him or make small noises to lead him on?

"What are you looking at?" Grace asked, and André blinked.

"Uh. I thought there was a nick out of that drawer."

"Hmm. Where?"

"It was just the light from this angle, I think."

Grace nodded, picking up a slider. They watched the rest of the episode in companionable silence. Then another. And another. Eventually, André pushed off the bed, his eyes bleary. “If I don’t brush my teeth, I’m going to fall asleep with jalapeño breath and wake up wondering why my mouth tastes like ass.”

Grace laughed and followed him into the bathroom. The counter was long enough for them both. They stood side by side, brushing quietly, trading looks in the mirror.

André spit, took a drink straight from the tap, then moved so she could use the sink. Grace frowned and looked for a cup. When she couldn't find it, she walked out to the bedroom and returned with a glass.

André watched with amusement. When she stood, he pointed. “You have toothpaste on your lip."

"Maybe I like it that way."

"Doubtful."

Grace swiped at it with her finger, then rinsed it off, and dried her hand and face on a towel. "Who volunteers for a show like that? Those guys are so young."

"Here we go again."

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