Page 118 of The Overtime Kiss

It’s adorable. The way he’s as eager to hear from Little Friends as I am. I re-signed up for the foster kitten list and have been waiting. It’s been two days—slightly less than forty-eight hours—and nothing.

“Not yet. I keep checking,” I say.

“Let me know the second you hear.”

“I will,” I say, promising once again.

And I’m about to head into the living room, but he doesn’t let go of my arm. Instead, he rubs his thumb against my wrist in a subtle pattern that melts me and turns me on at the same time. My heart speeds up, and I wish fervently he’d yank me against him and kiss me—a quick, chaste kiss that would be a promise of more.

But he doesn’t of course. We have rules that we’re mostly not breaking. “Remember what I said the other night? When we sit down at the table?” he says, his voice low and raspy, his eyes fiery with the reminders of the way we fucked the other night.

A rush of pleasure zings through me. “Oh, I remember.”

“Me too. It’s all I can think about—how you looked when I bent you over the counter. I’m going to be thinking about the way you sound when you come as you’re eating my risotto. Well, when I’m not thinking about that kitten.”

I laugh. “Do you even like kittens?”

“What do you think I am? A monster?”

“I don’t know. You’ve never talked about kittens before.”

“Well, watch out. I’m gonna be talking about them now.Why don’t you check your email? Maybe you got something in the last few minutes.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m totally loving his pre-smitten-ness. I take out my phone and check. It’s empty.

His shoulders sag. “Soon,” he says, and I’m hopeful too.

Before I can retreat to the living room to join my friend, Tyler’s mother wanders into the kitchen. “So, how’s all that dating going, Sabrina?”

The question makes me go rigid. What the hell do I say to her? Tyler gives me a look that could wither mountains, but I don’t know what it means. We’ve never talked about what we’re saying to his mother. And I wait for him to say something.

But he doesn’t. The green-eyed jealousy I saw before in him flares again. So I step in and improvise. “I haven’t really met anyone I’ve wanted to go out with.”

Lauren sighs, like she’s bummed for me. “Really? No one?”

And impulsively, since that’s my middle name, I go for it. “Well…there’s one guy. But it’s complicated.”

“Why is it complicated?”

How do I even begin? I start to answer, but she cuts in with, “Is Tyler being difficult about you dating?”

That gets Tyler’s attention immediately. He nods to her, gesturing toward the hallway, then pulls her aside.

I’m dying to know what he’s saying.

Dying.

I take my time heading to the living room, furtively stealing glances at the two of them. I can’t make out their words—they’re talking too quietly. But there’s real emotion in his warm eyes—a plea maybe for his mother to understand his situation? His mother exhales, like she’s making peace with something, then opens her arms and gives him a hug.

My throat catches as I watch them embrace. His love forhis children is all his, of course. But he learned it too. From her, from his brother, from his sister. From all this love around him. And I love that about him.

Later, when we’re all at the table, passing ceramic dishes of mashed potatoes and scooping seconds of a fantastic mushroom risotto, and food moaning over these delicious Brussels sprouts, Birdie clears her throat and says to me, “Did you know Tyler used to have a thing forAllison Marchand?”

I blink, then turn my gaze toward the man who pays my checks. “The figure skater? Who won a silver medal in the Olympics?”

“The one and only,” Birdie answers.

Tyler lowers his face, groaning as his family cackles.

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