Page 53 of Falling Into Forever
And just like that, grumpy Saylor is back. I step closer, and she must hear me because one eye opens in panic. “Do not come closer.” She shimmies a little, and I almost laugh as she tries to inconspicuously fan her rear end.
“We need a new sleeping arrangement,” I say instead of bringing up her rather epic gas attack.
It’s been three days since my declaration that I would fit into her life, which means it’s been way too many nights of me sleeping on a couch made for toddlers.
She holds up a hand and stumbles over her feet. No matter what time she wakes up, it’s always the same. Her brown hair is in some sort of tangled knot that falls every which way, her face is scrunched up, trying to block out the sun, and she has an inability to form complete sentences.
Grunts are her preferred form of communication until at least eleven, and it’s currently nine forty-five. But I do store away the fact that farts can make her laugh before her grumpy side takes over.
When she stops in the middle of the kitchen and sucks in a deep breath through her nose, a low chuckle rumbles in my chest and I move around her to reach for a coffee mug. I keep an eye on her, which is more for my benefit because she chose to sleep in a tiny tank top and shorts that ride dangerously low on her hips, and make her a cup of coffee.
When I’m done, she doesn’t look at me, but her chest rises and falls slowly. She’s controlling her breathing. Yesterday I thought she fell asleep standing up, but now I know she’s trying to pull herself together so she doesn’t snap at me. That seems like progress.
I quietly step in front of her and hold the mug under her nose, allowing her to breathe in the aroma of the dark roast, but not close enough that if she has a sassy-sized reaction, she’ll knock it out of my hands.
The frown lines around her lips relax when she holds out her hands. I offer it to her but don’t relinquish it until she lifts her gaze to mine.
“Good morning, Oscar the Grouch.”
I wait, hoping she’ll growl at me like she did the last time I called her that, and I’m only mildly disappointed when she doesn’t.
“Ugh. Fine. Good morning.” She squints one fiery blue orb at me, and I release the mug. “We are to never, ever talk about this morning, ever.”
If I smile any harder, my face will split in two. “Deal.”
Her cheeks are tinted a lovely shade of pink as she lifts the coffee to her lips.
The last couple of days have been hectic. I’ve been putting out fires almost as quickly as Trent starts them, but I can sense his desperation escalating, and it scares the shit out of me because the moves he’s making are unpredictable.
Saylor, on the other hand, has been writing, which is great, except she hasn’t left the house. Without leaving the house, we have nothing to show the world.
That’s why she’s up so early, for her, on a Saturday.
“I can’t believe the Lemon Festival is still a thing,” I say with a grin.
“Why?” she barks, and I swallow a chuckle. She’s feisty this morning. “It’s Hope Hollow. Turning lemons into lemonade is practically the town motto.”
She sips her coffee, and I can literally see her physical reaction. The second it hits her lips her body uncoils like a spring.
“You’re like a yo-yo,” I say without thinking.
She turns her glare on me. “Are you saying I’ve gained weight?”
“What? No.” Whatever else is in my expression, there has to be a healthy dose of confused and taken aback, because what the hell, Saylor?
“A yo-yo? Like a yo-yo diet?” She tugs at the hem of her tank and tries to cover herself with her coffee cup.
She’s not wearing a bra, and my gaze zeroes in on her tits like a sex-starved teenager. I’ve never felt desperation or longing so acutely. Being near her and not making her mine is slowly chipping away at my self-control.
I blink and shake my head before flashing her a sheepish grin. “It has nothing to do with your weight. You’re beautiful. I said you’re like a yo-yo because I’ve been watching you. Your body goes from wound and ready to snap to relaxed and peaceful four hundred times a day.” I bend my knees so we’re eye to eye. “Like a yo-yo.”
She carelessly lifts one shoulder. “Welcome to anxiety, Dante. Good times had by none.”
I snort, trying to hold in a laugh.
“You think my anxieties are funny?” She lashes out, her words like a whip in a silent room.
“No.” My smile makes my cheeks hurt, but I’m not sure anything could wipe it from my face.
