Page 24 of Izzy and Her Off-Limits Love

“Just past ten.”

“I’m sorry I slept so late. Have you been up for hours?”

I laugh. Because I’ve already worked out, had a protein smoothie and a shower, and unboxed and mounted the TV in the living room. All while I tried not to think about Izzy asleep in my office. “Yes. But I would never expect you to keep my hours.”

“Who could?” she grumbles. “You’re like some kind of A.I. hybrid who functions with no sleep.”

“Thank you. I think.” I leave the bacon long enough to turn around and pour her a mug of coffee. “Still take a little coffee with your cream?” I ask, topping off the mug with half-and-half.

“You remember,” she says, looking pleased.

More than you know.

Though I could hand the mug across the island, I walk around, dropping a hand on her shoulder while I set it in front of her.

She glances up and meets my gaze. Fresh-faced, she looks like the Izzy from my youth, her brown eyes the same color as the sprinkling of freckles dusting her cheeks.

“Thanks,” she says. She licks her lips, drawing my eyes there, but then she says, “Um, your bacon is burning.”

I jolt, bolting back around the counter, and pull the pan from the heat. It’s not quite burnt, but it’s close.

Izzy smirks as she takes a sip of her coffee. “Good save. Also, I like it crispy.”

“Then I planned this,” I say, and she laughs.

I add the bacon to the eggs, grits, and toast I’ve already plated. Izzy used to love a big breakfast, but this suddenly feels like a gamble. People change, habits change. She might be more of a green smoothie kind of woman now. Though, based on the way she scarfed down a burger last night, I’d guess no.

“Wow,” she says, staring down at the plates in my hands.

I can’t see her face to gauge her reaction, and the single-word response gives me nothing. So naturally, I overthink.

“I should have asked, but you used to love to eat breakfast, so I thought I would make something. Then I got kind of carried away. You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to eat. I can?—”

She grabs one of the plates, her fingers brushing against mine, and sets it in front of her. “I love breakfast. I also love that yourememberI love breakfast. And how I take my coffee.” Her smile turns shy, and her cheeks turn a rosy shade of pink. “This looks amazing, Liam.”

Something in my heart flips over. “Good. I’m glad.”

I set my plate down at the empty spot beside her, then move back around the island to grab us forks and napkins. “Hey, I have a phone charger next to my bed,” I say. “I should have thought to offer you one last night. Do you want me to plug your phone in?”

She shakes her head. “Let’s eat first. I can live without it for a little while. It’s kind of refreshing.”

A little while turns into several hours. We do plug her phone in, but it stays in the bedroom along with mine as we decide to watch a Christmas movie before heading out into what’s sure to be a throng of shoppers.

It feels so domestic, so comfortable, sorighthaving Izzy here, eating breakfast beside me, helping me wash dishes, and now, lounging on my couch, tucking her toes under my thigh to keep her feet warm while we watch a movie.

Things are easy between us, but the weight of the conversation wearen’thaving is getting heavier. So is the tension I know I’m not imagining.

Last night, I wanted to kiss Izzy on the stage at karaoke. And again in the parking lot after dinner.

I wanted to kiss her, and sheknowsI wanted to kiss her.

What’s my play here? How, exactly, do you broach the subject of romantic interest with someone whom you’ve been friends with nearly your whole life?

On the one hand, I don’t want to wait another second. I’m not interested in something light or casual—knowing Izzy the way I do, I can safely say I want it all.

Which brings me to the other hand. It’s not like I can tell her I’d like to dive into a forever kind of relationship right now. Or can I?

The thought of laying it out there, not playing games, being fully honest about my intentions sounds so refreshing. One thing I’ve always struggled with in dating is the sense that it’s some kind of game—one where I can never figure out the changing rules. I don’t want that with Izzy, and somehow, I just know she’s not the game-playing type.

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