He scowls when I manage to maneuver myself out of his arms and sit up, adjusting my stubborn erection with a wince. “You probably have things you need to do that I’m keeping you from. We’ve been lazy enough for one day.”
“No, JD. I don’t. I thought we agreed to spend the day together.”
His words ease the bulk of my insecurity. Not enough to change my mind, but it helps. “A few hours of break time for my delicate cheeks and your sanity won’t hurt either one of us. I could come back and spend the night here if you want m—”
“I want,” he says quickly, some of the tension leaving his body. “I want you to spend the night with me.”
“Done.” I reach for my phone on the coffee table to hide my expression of relief and send Fiona a quick message along with an apology for my slow response.
So I’m spending the night. My third night in a row, but if I’m going to be sensible about this, it should probably be the last. At least, for a while. I’m getting way too comfortable, and the last thing any man wants is an unexpected roommate, no matter how great the chemistry is.
“Eventually, I do need to go back to my apartment. If only to find my good glasses and feed my invisible dog.”
I’m going for lighthearted, but my mood takes an unwarranted nosedive as soon as I talk about leaving him.
It isn’t a healthy response. People need space. Even in the lusty honeymoon phase of a new relationship, there comes a moment when you need a little breathing room. I’m sure I would advise some “me time” to any Go For Green reader in my situation.
But today has been so perfect. It’s hard to imagine ever getting tired of spending time with him. Yet another first, because I’m fairly certain I could get tired of anyone.
I look down when my phone pings. “She’s on her way. I better get dressed.”
This will be good. Socializing is healthy. Everybody needs it.
What you need is therapy, Green.
As soon as I stand up Carter is behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face in my hair. “Since you’re coming back after coffee, I suppose I could make a supply run to the store for a few ingredients. I’m cooking something special for dinner, and before you ask, it won’t be barbecue. But you’ll still like it.”
I glance up over my shoulder with a grin. “You’re pretty domesticated for a career Marine. Shouldn’t you have a pantry full of MREs or something? Cans of Spam? How do you know so much about cooking?”
Carter caresses my stomach casually as he responds. “That would be the seventeen years of training I had from two of the finest recipe-collectors in North Carolina. Mom and Gran.”
“They taught you how to cook?”
“They taught me everything.” He releases me but grabs my hand, walking me toward the bedroom. “Cooking and sewing, hunting and fishing. You name it. And they were always looking for new lesson plans. I once came home to find my grandmother trying to kick a soccer ball around while my mother read her the rules of the game from a library book.”
“Now we know why you handled my textbook addiction so well.”
His smile is warm with humor happy memories. “That and they were both collectors themselves. Teachers at the local high school. I think they felt bad there were no men around for me to learn from. With their husbands gone, they wanted to make sure I had a well-balanced education.”
I stop at the closet where he had me put my bag this morning, implying the guest room was too far away from his bed. “Your father wasn’t around?”
“He died when I was three. But before that he’d spent most of my life out of state working on oilrigs, so I barely remember him.”
“Me too. I mean, I was three when mine died. Three and a half.” He’s watching me and I could kick myself for interrupting. “Weird, right? Ignore me. Keep talking.”
He hesitates until I motion for him to continue. “After his accident, my mother and I moved in with Gran. They were both devoted to me. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have when I was younger. But that first leave? My first dinner back home? I realized how fortunate I was to grow up with them always on my side.”
“It’s hard to imagine a man like you being raised by two plucky widows. You’re so…” I fade off and try to encapsulate what I mean with hand gestures.
He smirks. “At a loss for words, Green, or are we playing charades? I’m so what?”
“You know what,” I grumble. “I had a foster dad and nine brothers and didn’t turn out half as testosterone-y as you did.”