Page 71 of The Fate Factor

I’ve just started to sketch a pointed, veined leaf when I hear the stairs creak, his bare feet on the wood. I tip my head back and smile, waiting for his touch.

“Morning.” His hand slides up my neck and into my hair as he leans around to kiss me over my shoulder. His eyes are sleepy, right lid heavier. It’s just a tad more pronounced right now, my favorite little quirk. It occurs to me that if someone else were to notice this about him, it would be here, first thing in the morning when he’s not yet fully awake. That thought whips a slice of possessiveness straight across my chest, so strong I nearly flinch from it.

“Did I wake you up?”

“No. You’re very stealthy. I rolled over to the cold sheet before I realized you were gone.” He spins my stool so it’s facing himand kisses me again. He has to bend nearly in half, and I think of the way I disappeared beneath him last night. How every inch of my skin was pressed to his and he had more to spare.

“Did you sleep okay? You must have been so uncomfortable.” I’d woken up more than once feeling awful for the way I was pressed against his ribs. I tried to adjust but I was trapped, and he was so still. So deeply out.

“I wasn’t actually,” he says. “I was… cozy. Were you?”

“Very cozy.”

His mouth moves to my neck before he pulls away to look at the paper spread out over the kitchen table. “These are yours?”

“Mmhmm. The hops are in there somewhere.”

He lifts the loose leaf paintings and thumbs through. “Holy shit, they’re gorgeous.”

“You sound surprised.”

“No, I’m just not much of an art scholar. My only experience with watercolors is from kindergarten.”

I snort. “Well, then I’m really glad you’re impressed.”

“I am. I had no idea they could look like this. I like this one.”

He holds up a beach rose I did the other day because I was missing them. “Me too.”

“What are you drawing now?”

“Poinsettias. I think I’m going to take your advice. I like doing invitations, custom cards. So I’m doing them.”

“Myadvice?”

“Yes. Why do you look so surprised?”

He reaches behind me and runs a finger over the paper, studying what’s barely a draft at this point. Just the bones. “It blows me away that all of that talent is just floating around in here.” He lifts my hands, kissing my knuckles.

“You think my hands are talented, huh?”

His smirk turns mischievous. “Can’t say enough about them, actually.”

We kiss again, and my body flushes from my head to my toes, waves of anticipation and need pulsing in my blood. I wonder if it will always be like this. If this connection that sparks between us will continue to manifest physically.

He pulls away, his hand still cupping my cheek. The flock of birds on his forearm catches my eye and I turn to press my lips there. “Where did you get this done?”

“Hay Needles,” he says. “On Congress Street.”

“It’s gorgeous.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“Did you get them all there?” I ask, wondering about the wave, then the lyrics I saw that never materialized.

“Nah, I’m not attached to any artist in particular. Maybe I’ll have you draw my next one.”

“Really?”

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