Page 38 of Press Play

Garlic simmering in tomato sauce stirs me from my slumber. Peering across the way, I notice Wren isn’t where I last saw her. Music hums from the kitchen, and I smile to myself.

Home feels fuller now that she’s here; I can’t explain it. I always hated the silence, and it’s certainly less quiet now. Sitting up, I stretch my arms, and my elbow cracks.

Wren cackles and hollers “Old!” from the kitchen.

“Says the woman who can’t type without her wrists cracking.”

My lungs stop functioning when I see her with her hand on her hip. She changed into a pair of cotton shorts and paired them with a shirt that hugs her figure. She’s filled out since we first met, in the best way possible. She used to be too thin, and malnourished; now, she has curves I shouldn’t want to discover.

“Is that what I hope it is?” I ask while shutting down the thought.

With a wide grin, she bobs her head to the music. “It is.”

Wren dealt with a lot of shit growing up. Her parents weren’t there when she needed them. They were either high or absent. Wren’s dad isn’t nearly as bad as her mom, and one good thing I will say about him is that he taught his daughter how to make a killer lasagna. Wren altered the recipe so she can eat it, and I don’t mind it at all. Her family always said that gluten-free pasta is too dry and breaks easily. I’ve never experienced that, at least not with her cooking.

“It smells amazing,” I moan while wafting the steam toward my nose.

“It should be done in a few minutes.”

I climb off the couch, and when Wren holds out the spoon, I grab it and mix the contents in the pot.

I don’t stop myself from watching her walk over to the fridge to get the ricotta and mozzarella cheese. You’d think I was watching a movie from the way I’m mesmerized. I can’t avert my gaze, and frankly, I don’t want to. The way she mixes the cheeses and seasonings together is a different kind of porn. If only she knew how sexy she is.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

My cheeks burn. “You have something on your nose,” I say.

Lies.

She wipes her nose and wiggles it. “Better?”

I sputter a laugh because now shedoeshave something on her nose, ricotta, to be specific. “There.” I point and chuckle when she misses it. Placing the spoon down, I walk toward her, and with my thumb, I clean the cheese off her nose. “Much better.”

Her eyes meet mine, and I’m left struggling for air being this close to her again. It should be a crime for her to feel this soft. I move my free hand from her cheek to the base of her neck, and I swear her breath hitches, but her mouth doesn’t move. Warmthradiates from her chest, and as if my body has a mind of its own, I step closer.

Wren doesn’t back away like I expect her to. It’s only when the sauce boils over and sizzles against the stove that she does, and I’m left reaching.

“So,” she starts while removing the pot and wiping down the stovetop with a paper towel. “I was thinking about something but have been too nervous to ask.”

I clear my throat. “You have my attention,” I say while walking around the island toward her, trying to shake off whatever just happened.

With a shy chuckle, she flushes while reaching for a casserole dish. “I’m not sure if I should.”

“Well, now you have to because I’m curious.” I cross my arms over my chest and smirk. “Ask me.”

She bounces between her feet before giving up. “Porn.”

“What about it?” I ask, holding back my laughter.

“Do the women ever fake it?”

Oh, this is going to get interesting.

Without thinking, I say, “Not with me.”

“Really?” she responds with her brows raised. “Not once?”

“Nope.”

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