Page 23 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
“Oh,” she groans.“You would do an anatomical assessment of a dick pic.”
“Professional hazard,” I shrug.“Like how you probably diagnosed him with acute compensation syndrome.”
“After Claire’s penis facts deep dive that night, I can now identify at least seven anatomical red flags in unsolicited pics,” she deadpans.“Even looked up more animal facts.Like I now know cats have barbed penises?Apparently stimulates the female cat into ovulation but can get uncomfortable when removed?Things to add to alien romance, maybe?”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me then.It feels strange in my chest, like a muscle I haven’t used in too long.
“So,” I say carefully, pulling milk from the fridge.“Chicago treating you well?Besides the divorce, I mean.”
Her expression shifts, something hardening around the edges.“It was...educational and exhausting.”
“Educational and exhausting,” I repeat, hearing the weight behind the words.“That’s one way to describe marriage and work.”
“Work was rewarding.Marriage was...educational.”Her voice is light, but the words are loaded.“Like walking in on your husband in a supply closet with your mentee.But that wasn’t even the worst part.”She picks at her sleeve.“Apparently, I had unrealistic expectations about communication and about relationships.Too many romance novels.Oh, and also not enough appreciation for the shoulder as a major erogenous zone.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.“The shoulder?”
“Chuck was...innovative,” she deadpans.“In all the wrong ways.”
I shift to face her, flour still clinging to both of us.“For the record, romance novels usually feature people actually enjoying themselves.And communicating.Even if some of the plots are...ambitious.”
She snorts softly.“Ambitious is one word.”
“Also, the shoulder can be a turn-on.”I lean in slightly.“Depends on what else is happening.What’s being said.How light the touch is.Or...how slow the graze of teeth.”
“Hmm.Noted.”Her voice is lower now.And she doesn’t quite meet my gaze.
The silence folds in.Not uncomfortable.But charged with everything we’ve buried and not buried deep enough.
She exhales, her fingers curling around the hem of her sweatshirt.“I forgot how quiet small towns get at night.I mean the group in the living room is pretty loud, but that’s not city noises.Background noises.”
“I don’t mind quiet,” I murmur, grabbing the mixing bowl.“It gives you space to hear your own bullshit.”
I catch her smile.The real one.The one that tugs at the corner of her mouth like it’s been trying not to exist since the moment we saw each other again.
She crosses her arms tighter.“You always made food when things got… complicated.Cookies in your easy-bake oven in the dorm when you had to study.Or when you couldn’t get back home for a birthday party.”
“Still do.”I glance up at her.“It helps.”
Her gaze lingers.Not on the bowl.On my hands.My forearms.My shoulders.
“I remember you showed me the pancakes you made for your dorm one morning,” she says after a moment.Blushing like she remembers it’s not the only thing I showed her through the video.“They were always a little burnt.”
“Rude.”
“Endearing.”Her voice dips again.Quieter.“You doing something for others and not pretending it had to be perfect.Safe.”
And there it is.That word.She’s not talking about pancakes.And safe in her mouth sounds like a compliment.A need.Desire.
Outside the kitchen, the dining room noise gets louder—silverware clinking, someone calling out bullshit on a game, the shuffle of boots by the door.But here, in this tucked-away space, it’s another world entirely.
“You still feel safe.And that makes you dangerous,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
“Why?”I ask, heart hammering, even though I know.
She clears her throat.“Because you’re real and real is too much.”
The air between us shifts.Electric.Thicker than before.
