Page 58 of Neat
Or would she fall into me, too?
I closed my book, setting it on her coffee table before I reached over and grabbed the one from her hands, too.
“Hey,” she pouted, reaching for it even after I’d set it down next to mine. “Come on, Becker. You get me into reading and then you take my book away just when things are getting crazy? What sick kind of cruel are you?”
I didn’t laugh, didn’t make a joke back. I just pulled her into my lap, framing her face with my hands, and slowly, I pulled her lips to mine.
There was no roll of my hips — or hers. There was no quick rush of air on an inhale, or slick coat of desire pooling deep in my gut. With that kiss, I whispered things I couldn’t say out loud against her lips, nipping at each one, my tongue seeking hers, hands sliding back until I cradled her neck, holding her to me.
She melted into the touch, but pulled away with a giggle, shaking her head and kissing my nose as she settled on my lap. “Nice distraction, but I’m still mad at you for taking me away from Marie-Laure and her fight against the Nazis.”
“Come to my place tomorrow night.”
I was stone-cold serious, and when she saw my expression, hers leveled out, too. “It’s the night before the grand opening.”
“I know, and we’ve done everything that needs to be done. You need a break before the madness takes over. Let me cook for you.”
She smirked. “Macaroni and cheese, I’d imagine?”
“Let me cook arealmeal for you,” I said, still serious. My eyes searched hers, and I swallowed past the sinking in my gut that told me I was coming on too strong, that I was freaking her out.
I’d never felt this way in my entire life, and I refused to keep silent about it.
“I’ve never been to your place,” she said — and I wasn’t sure if it was an argument, or just a statement.
“Let’s change that.”
She bit her lip, considering, but then a smile bloomed over those rosy lips of hers, and she kissed my nose. “Okay, Chef Logan. But I expect a four-course dinner.”
“And you’ll get it,” I said, kissing the corners of her lips before I pulled her mouth to mine again. My hands slipped over her arms, down her back, gripping her hips briefly before I smacked her ass. “Dessert, too.”
She giggled, swatting at me with absolutely zero intention of actually getting me away from her before she wrapped her arms around my neck. The kiss deepened, all jokes gone, and I ignored the clock on the wall that told me it was late and I needed to go.
Maybe if I didn’t point it out, if I didn’t say a word, I could just stay there.
Stay the night.
Stay forever.
And maybe, if I played my cards right, I could get her to stay, too.
Logan
My place was the cleanest it had ever been — and that was saying something.
I’d rushed home from work to scrub down every corner, dusting and sweeping and mopping and tidying until it was time to run to the grocery store. And even now, with dinner cooking in the oven and my hands busy chopping veggies for the appetizer, I was looking around the space, making mental notes of things I wanted to tidy up or rearrange before Mallory got there.
It was the first time I’d ever invited a woman into my home.
It sounded crazy, because I’dsleptwith enough women that it should have been hard to believe that statement. But, regardless of what the town liked to think or gossip about, it was always me going totheirplace, not bringing them to mine. To me, there was something personal about the space I lived in — the photos on the walls, the books on the shelves, the magnets on the fridge. There were little pieces of me everywhere, and I had never wanted to share those pieces with anyone before.
Until now.
My stomach was a wreck the entire evening, and I wondered if I’d even be able to eat the dinner I was cooking. I’d gone all out, remembering from a brief conversation we’d had while cleaning out the storage closet that Mallory loved Greek food but rarely had it, since there wasn’t a Greek restaurant within fifty miles of Stratford and her family was a steak and potatoes kind of family. So, I’d made homemade tzatziki, with fresh vegetables and hot pita bread brushed with seasoning to dip. I’d also made a classic Greek salad, and a creamy, feta-smothered chicken bake with artichoke hearts and olives and tomatoes and Mediterranean seasoning. And, even though it’d been a giant pain in my ass, I had baklava made and waiting to go in the oven as soon as I pulled dinner out — complete with the honey sauce in the fridge that I’d pour over top of it when it was done.
The meal and the way my house looked were the only things I could control that night. Maybe that’s why I had obsessed, teaching myself more than I really even needed to know about the Greek culture and their diet before choosing a perfectly balanced menu. And maybe that was why I’d cleaned every corner of my already-spotless house, as if even one photo frame being out of place would be the difference between Mallory feeling the same way I was or thinking I was a crazy person.
I sighed, shaking my head at myself as I arranged the freshly cut cucumber slices around the bowl of tzatziki. “Pull it together, man.”
