Page 67 of Love is an Open Book
I step up behind her, wrapping her in my arms, and press a kiss behind her ear.
“What are you doing?” she asks, leaning into me.
“Kissing you.” And then I do just that, sliding my hand upto pull her hair aside, pressing my lips to her neck, the juncture of her shoulder. She spins to face me, and I take the juice from her, set it... somewhere. I’m not concerned with anything much besides her. Her back is to the open refrigerator door, the cool air vapor around us.
My thumb cups her jaw and I slot my mouth against hers. Our kiss is sweet and slow, a discovery. Awareness spreads through me, of how good it is between us, how we fit, effortlessly, not just in friendship, but in this kiss.
Desire for her flares bright, a match sparking into flame when she moans, parting her mouth. I slide my hands under her thighs and lift her, kicking the fridge door closed as I turn and set her on the counter. She’s smiling, perfect lips curved in invitation, and I decide just friends is never going to be good enough again.
“Please tell me you have something other than gruel.” She’s called oatmeal “gruel” ever since our college days, when she insisted on sitting at least a table away in the cafeteria anytime I served myself oatmeal from the breakfast bar. Which, since I was on a four-year-long mission to grow man-size muscles, was pretty often.
She still teases me for the amount of eggs and oats I consumed during my college years, second only to wings and cheap lager. I make a show of taking out both steel-cut and rolled oats but really I’m scanning the pantry for Mia-approved options because the last thing I want to do is venture out for breakfast. Normally I’d love to hit up one of our favorite spots, but normally I wouldn’t have her all to myself, sitting at my dining table looking like a whole meal herself.
She clears her throat, and I realize I’ve turned from the pantry to stare at her. Instead of scolding me, she holds my gaze, pursing her lips to blow on her coffee.
“Geez, Mia... I thought you wanted to eat.”
A smirk curves her lips, and I bite my lip, hard. She’s shown me herself with the filter off, undiluted, and I want to drink her in.
I cross the room and bend to kiss her. She palms the back of my neck, arching upward. We’re in tune, her touch perfectly calibrated to set me on fire. Her fingers are on my chest when the doorbell rings. We spring apart, the chair tipping, and I make a wild grab for the back of it and catch Mia mid-fall. An impatient knock sets off a chorus of meows from the laundry room, and Mia’s laugh tickles my skin.
“This funny to you, Brady?”
Another knock sounds, and her eyes flicker up, wide, as if she’s just realized what we’re doing, and where. She ducks under my arm and sprints for my room. Grateful I installed blinds last month, I rush to the laundry room and grab a shirt at random from the hamper, ignoring the questioning blinks of the cat family, whose curiosity looks more accusatory than normal. I shut the door on Mama Cat’s feline judgment, then open the front door and catch Morris in the act of ringing the bell a third time.
He gives me a slow once-over. “Catching you at a bad time?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re wearing a polo with sweatpants.”
I glance down and—shit. He’s right. “Laundry day.”
He laughs. “Okay, we’ll go with that. Is she still here? Should I come back later?”
“Why are you here anyway, at...” I lean back to look at the microwave clock. Almost ten? Damn, I can’t remember the last time I slept past eight.
“Did you or did you not extort me for free manual labor when you agreed to take the cats?”
I swallow, trying to recall anything before last night. Everything else outside Mia and me seems hazy, unreal.
Morris blinks at me. “Have you been drinking?”
“No, I just—” The can of wood stain by the porch railing catches my eye and I remember. “The pergola.”
“Yep,” he confirms, still eyeing me suspiciously. “Though why I agreed to spend my Sunday staining your pergola when it’s clearly not a priority for you is beyond me.”
“Sorry, man. It’s just these kittens—”
His face brightens. “How are those little fuzzballs? Can I see them?” He makes a move to get past me, but I step to the side, resting my forearm on the doorjamb.
“Not right now, they’re, uh... sleeping.”
“Cats sleep all day, man,” he says.
“But kittens need their rest.”
He peers around me. “Youdohave a woman in there, don’t you?”
