Page 113 of Changing the Playbook
His teeth catch his lower lip. “What’s the difference again?”
“Mike. No.”
“In my defense, they werereallysmall bulbs!”
“We’re going to repel every vampire in a fifty-mile radius.” I grab the spoon to stir, and he molds himself against my back again. The hard length of him presses insistently against me through his jeans. “Although on the bright side, we’re both eating it, so neither of us will notice how we reek.”
“See? Romance isn’t dead.” His chin hooks over my shoulder, breath warm against my ear.
I lean into him anyway, loving how natural this feels. How easy. A week ago, I was armor-plated in anxiety, analyzing every touch for signs of impending abandonment. Now I can just… exist. With him. Covered in flour and reeking of garlic and happier than I’ve been since?—
“You’ve got sauce on your cheek,” he murmurs.
“Where?”
“Right…” He leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheekbone. “There.”
“So subtle.”
Then he grosses me out by licking the spoon and putting it back in the sauce.
“I’m adding Sophie essence to the sauce.”
My face heats. “That’s disgusting.”
“You weren’t complaining about how much I liked Sophie essence last night.” His voice drops to that register that vibrates straight through me to places that clench with the memory. “Or this morning. Or in the shower after we’d finished but notreallyfinished?—”
I slap a floury hand over his mouth. “Boundaries, Altman.”
He licks my palm. Slowly. Deliberately.
“Michael Altman!” I shriek, jerking my hand back and wiping it on his shirt.
“Sophie Pearson!” He mimics my scandalized tone perfectly.
“I’m walking right out of this kitchen if you don’t behave.”
“You wouldn’t dare abandon our dough child.” He cages me against the counter, hands braced on either side. His hips pin mine in place, a delicious weight that makes coherent thought nearly impossible. “That’s joint custody abandonment.”
“Our dough child is delinquent.” But I don’t move. Can’t move. Not when he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing he’s hungry for. My hands slide up his chest to explore the solid warmth through his thin t-shirt, wondering if we can keep an eye on the food while we?—
“Hands to yourself, Pearson.” His grin widens at my hypocrisy. “We have work to do.”
We manage to wrangle the dough into something vaguely circular, though it looks more like abstract art than proper pizza shape. Mike keeps finding excuses to touch me—steadying mywaist as I reach for olive oil, tucking flour-dusted hair behind my ear, pressing quick kisses to my shoulder as I work the dough.
It’s been like this all week.
This perfect bubble where I wake up tangled in his sheets and everything just makes sense. Where I can sleep through the night without jolting awake at 3:00 a.m. to check my phone for disaster. Where studying feels manageable because Mike’s there.
Where I can go hours—actual hours—without the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my chest about Mom’s medication schedule or whether Hazel got to gymnastics on time or if I’m failing every single person who depends on me by being twenty-three and selfishly in love.
“Hey.” Mike bumps my hip. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you solve all the world’s problems in your head.” He demonstrates, furrowing his brow and chewing his lip.
“That’s not what I look like.”
