Page 66 of The Geography of Happiness

“Don’t get cute with me,” he said shortly, making me want to kiss his pissy little smile. “I want answers.”

“All right.” I leaned toward him over the island and he reciprocated, his blue eyes full of amusement and so damn closeI could almost hear the flutter of those gorgeous long lashes. I wanted to know what they felt like on my cheek... or the inside of my thigh, or a million other places I shouldn’t be thinking about.

“The reason Zach thinks I can’t cook,” I began, my voice rough with want, “is because Ineverdo, at least not for that lot. Matt knows I have some skills from our university days spent flatting together, but the others have zero idea I’m not a klutz in the kitchen, and I plan to keep it that way.” I leaned back to keep my composure more than anything else, and Terry followed suit, his cheeks warm, his pupils half-blown.

He’s feeling it too.

A crease formed in Terry’s brow. “But why?”

I shrugged. “For one, I hardly live a life of dinner parties and cookouts. I don’t have time. My hours are long, and then there’s the call-outs. When I do get invited somewhere, I generally grab my contribution from the supermarket—garlic bread, cheese and crackers, stuff like that. If people find out I can actually cook, God knows what clever shit I might be expected to bring. Not to mention since my invites are mostly to Miller Station, who in their right mind would want to compete against Gil? The man’s middle name is Michelin. And then they might expect me to—horror of horrors—host somethingherein return.” I gave a dramatic shudder and Terry almost choked on a mouthful of sandwich, which resulted in a spray of toast crumbs over the breakfast bar... and me.

“Oh god.” His eyes flew wide. “I am so sorry.” He jumped off his stool, caught the remains of the sandwiches with his elbow, and sent the whole lot, plate and all, flying to the floor. The plate shattered and sandwiches skittered merrily across the tiles.

“Fuck! What is wrong with me?” Terry began scooping broken china into his hands.

“It’s fine.” I slid from the stool and tried to take his arm, but he batted me away. “Terry, it’s fine. I can clean it up later. It’s just a plate. Don’t worry about it.”

“Of course Iworry.” He stood with his hands full of broken china and scanned the kitchen. “This is yourhome.” I opened up the cupboard under the sink where the bin was kept and he disposed of it.

Then he caught sight of my jersey and blanched. “Jesus Christ.” He started brushing the crumbs from the front but then saw the floor and reached for a dishcloth. “This is so embarrassing. I swear, I’m not usually like this.”

“Terry,” I repeated softly, sensing something was definitely off. “Come on, mate. Just leave it.”

His gaze shot to mine, electric with anger, and my heart pumped in my chest. “I willnotjustleave it,” he hissed, sounding almost frantic. “I made the fucking mess. I’ll clean it up.”

I kept quiet, watching as he ran the dishcloth under water, squeezed every single drop from it, and then headed for the breakfast bar.

“You gave us a bed for the night, Spencer,” he ranted. “You put yourself out. You’ve looked after me...us... and you’ve been a friend.” He scrubbed endless circles on the already spotless breakfast bar. “Bradley wouldn’t have let Hannah leave if it wasn’t for you offering us somewhere close by to stay.” He paused in his frantic endeavours, his shoulders slumping. “Jesus, Spencer, what am I even doing down here? Hannah’s not ready for any of this.” There was a crumbling brittleness to his words, like he was being held together by a rapidly thinning thread. Then he drew breath and started up with the cloth once again.

“Terry, stop.” I made my way over and covered his hand with mine. “Please.” I pried the cloth free of his fingers and set itaside. “Enough, yeah, or I’m going to have to get a new granite top.”

He glanced sideways but there was no humour in his eyes. He leaned over the island and put his head in his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Will you stop saying that?” I ran a hand up and down his spine, the heat of his skin searing my palm through the thin material. Then, figuring I had nothing to lose, I asked, “Is this really all about Hannah’s fall?”

Terry chuckled mirthlessly and pushed himself upright, his expression so lost it almost broke my heart. “No. But I think we both know that.”

I tucked a stray lock of dirty blond hair behind his pretty ears, aching to do a lot more. Like pull him into my arms and tell him it would all work out, but I doubted that would be welcomed. “It’s been a hell of a day and you’re tired. It’s not the time to make any decisions. Why don’t you get some sleep?”

The lines on his face smoothed and his shoulders relaxed. “You’re right.”

“Something you should get used to.”

He grinned. “Says you.”

I tucked another lock of hair into place and Terry’s gaze followed my every move. I cupped his cheek, and those blue eyes darkened on mine. “It will all still be there in the morning,” I said, stroking the coarse evening stubble coating his jawline. “You may as well get some rest.”

He turned a little, squaring our bodies, his gaze burning into mine. “That’s good advice,” he answered with a husky edge that stirred my unruly cock, but he didn’t move.

“Yeah, I’m full of good advice.” I watched his eyes dip to my mouth, his lips parting to reveal the tip of his pink tongue, and damn, I wanted this man. I threaded my fingers through his hair on the side of his head and he shivered, his breathing shallow,his head tilting back just enough to let me know he was right there with me, feeling everything I was.

I leaned in but didn’t kiss him, stopping just far enough away to let him know it was there if he wanted it. After the day he’d had, this needed to be Terry’s call.

He barely hesitated, closing the remaining distance between us in a second. He slid his lips over mine—tentative at first—tasting, reacquainting, teasing even, his eyes open, fixed on mine, his pupils huge.

Then he groaned, and my entire body responded to the hunger in that sound like I’d been waiting for it my whole life. Nothing mattered. Everything disappeared. The room, the house, the problems burdening both our hearts. It all disappeared, everything narrowed and focused on that one sound, that one pair of warm lips, those slender arms sliding around my waist, the feel of his heart thundering in his chest alongside mine.

“Jesus, what you do to me.” I pushed him back against the pantry door and spread my feet a little to level our height. And just like that, he opened for me, and an explosion of taste burst over my tongue—salty cheese, beer, the coffee we’d had in the clinic while the paperwork was being done, and something sweet I couldn’t name, which only added to the intense pleasure.

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