Page 43 of What's in a Kiss?

“Don’t move,” he says excitedly and disappears.

Help! What is it about hot guys that turns them into sexual freaks? Life’s too easy, so they need to generate a challenge? Or is the problem too much success?

A moment later, a heavenly scent fills my nose. Glasswell’sheaded back toward me. He’s carrying a large wooden tray—of steaming food.

“Et voila!Alouettes sans têtes,” he says. “I know your French side shudders because the dish is traditionally made only with beef, but you know, we’ve had that chicken sitting in the fridge.”

I laugh, relieved to my marrow, and only a little concerned about my fading French comprehension skills.

“Thank you.” I hear in my voice the profound gratitude that Glasswell and I aren’t into bestiality, but he takes my tone in stride. Like he does things like this regularly for me. Like I’m this grateful all the time.

I can’t get my mind around how comfortable he is—in this house, in that kitchen, and most of all with me. This is clearly what he wants, not just in our wedding photo, but every day, every moment. Right now.

I don’t understand what’s happening, but I’m starting to see it could be worse.

I take the tray he’s holding out. The dish looks like it could have come from the kitchen at my favorite French restaurant, Petit Trois. He filleted the chicken, pounded it, stuffed it with breadcrumbs and garlic, and rolled it into a spiral. Beside it lie two forks, two napkins, and two empty white wineglasses.

“Loire or Bourgogne?” he asks.

Before I speak, he reads it in my eyes.

“Loire. Great. Be right back.”

How did he know—a second before I knew it myself? White wine from the Loire Valley is exactly what I want. It’s what my mom likes to order on her birthday.

I run my hand over the mauve leather of the sofa, whichlooks like it could seat forty guests. A flame flickers in the molded stone fireplace in the corner. A window-wall looks out on all that’s lovely in LA. The plush white rug is straight from the showrooms I stare into while stuck on La Brea, coming home from Werner’s restaurant.

Werner.

I wonder if we know each other in this realm. Should I call him? Could he help me? He’s the least judgmental guy I know, and though I’ve never seen him correctly operate an elevator on the first try, he can keep a secret. I make a mental note to check my phone later for his number.

Glasswell returns with a corkscrew and a bottle of Sancerre. I want to know when he moved to LA, whether his show tapes out here. I want to know what I do with my days. I clearly don’t Lyft in that fancy Lucid in the garage. But since I don’t know how to broach these topics with Glasswell, I take the corkscrew and opt for wine.

He sits down next to me. His knee overlaps mine and his elbow rests on my thigh, and he’s warm and he’s firm and he makes no move to shift away. The length of his arm presses the length of mine, he looks at me, and smiles—that wedding photo smile, that forever-everything-entwined smile. He leans over and kisses me, halfway on my cheek and halfway on my eye, so casually it barely matters where it lands because there are seven million more where that one came from. It freezes me in place, because I can feel the love it’s made of.

Which is scarier than anything else tonight. But it’s real. It’s here between us. And if I don’t get away soon, I’ll have to face it.

Glasswell picks up a remote, which comes as a huge, well-timed relief. In seconds something numbing will be on TV. In high school, if memory serves, Glasswell was obsessed with Premier League soccer. I’m ready to zone out, eat my chicken, banish all thoughts of marriage from my mind, and pass out on this acre of a couch.

When Glasswell opens the Bravo app and selectsThe Real Housewives of Plano, I almost spit out my wine. Glasswell watchesTRH?

“I know,” he says guiltily. “We said we were going to wean ourselves off this month—”

“We ain’t weaningshit,” I say and snatch the remote from his hands.

“Thank God,” he laughs as I press Play.

We settle back on the couch, holding our plates in our laps. On TV, a real housewife is quoting Scripture, one hand lifted high in prayer, the other holding a margarita.

I take a bite of Glasswell’s dish, and I can’t help but moan. It’s too good—hot and garlicky, tender and rich.

“You did not cook this,” I say.

“The dish by which a real chef wishes to be judged,” he says, with the air of pretension I haven’t heard him use yet as my husband. That’s more like it. It only took two hours for the old familiar snob Glasswell to return.

Then he winks and nudges me, like we’re in on some sort of inside joke.

“Were you quoting someone just now?” I ask.

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