Nice.
This is just so damn nice . . .
I mean . . . distracting.
This is crazy distracting.
But I wouldn’t change a thing as I indulge in the view of her. “I like hands-on yoga instruction. I’m gonna keep this up,” I say, shamelessly staring at her fantastic chest.
While she stares at my . . . toes.
She flicks her fingernail against the big one. “Too cute.”
“Happens to me once a week. I’ll take a catnap when Abby has friends over, and they conduct pedicure ambushes.”
“The pastels are fetching,” she teases.
I wiggle my toes. “Why, thank you. Does it turn you on?”
She leans over me, a little closer. “So much.”
A groan rumbles out of me, unbidden. Everything she does gets me going. Hell, just the view of her chest fires me up. Her tits in that sports bra are so damn tantalizing. The tease of them, the peek at her flesh.
I want them, dammit, but I can’t have them.
Or her.
I whimper.
She tilts her head. “You okay?”
I clear my throat and sweep away the dirty thoughts. “I’m all good,” I say, and home in on the poses.
Whatever Katie’s been doing to the team, and to me, it’s working. In just a couple of weeks, I feel better, I’m playing stronger, and the hammie strain isn’t bothering me a bit.
That feels like winning.
The only thing I wish were different is the time I spend with her. I wish I could see her at night, especially after that picnic lunch. Every night, every hour, every second we spend together seems to tug me deeper into her orbit.
And I like her orbit a lot.
Because . . . I like her.
When we finish and make our way to the exit, an idea takes hold, gripping me. It feels necessary.
Important.
And it’s a chance to spend more time with her.
“Katie, do you like monkey bread?”
She swings her gaze to me. “The bread that ought to be cake? The bread that’s dessert for breakfast? The bread that’s like a cinnamon roll?”
I tap her nose. “Show-off.”
“Yes. Yes, I do like it.”
I toss out the next question, hoping she also likes what I’m offering. My hope for her yes is more intense than I expected. “Abby wanted to make some, but she’s going to gymnastics with a friend. I thought I would get started, and we could finish when she comes home. Any chance you want to shop for monkey bread supplies with me, and then we can make some with Abby?”
I just asked a woman to hang with my daughter and me.
I ought to be terrified. And I’m honestly not sure why I chose now to ask Katie this big question.
But something about this seems just right.
This afternoon is all I can give, but maybe it will be enough for now.
20
Katie
I wasn’t jonesing for this invitation, but now that he’s offered it, there is only one way to RSVP.
“I would love to shop with you and make monkey bread,” I say, and his suggestion feels worlds better than any night with my ex.
And it feels just as good as dancing to 80s tunes, shopping with a drag queen, and making eggs with this man.
Being with Harlan in any little way feels good.
That’s scary as hell, but wonderful too.
It’s making me think about timing, and steps, and possibilities.
About the future, and how to make it happen.
Risky thoughts I probably shouldn’t entertain, given my past. Given my heartbreak.
And yet, I am.
That means there’s monkey bread to make.
“Let’s hit it, handsome,” I say.
Harlan shoots me a sexy and sweet smile that melts my heart—and all the rest of me too.
So much for being only teacher and student with him. His smile just crossed the don’t-break-me line of my heart.
“And we’re off to the store,” he says.
And maybe to something unknown.
How is it possible that grocery shopping can be fun?
Tell me that, universe.
I have never enjoyed shopping for food. Food buying is functional.
But shopping for groceries with Harlan is a blast.
I grab a box of brown sugar and waggle it. “Confession time—as a kid, did you or did you not sneak spoonfuls of sugar from the pantry?”
He scoffs. “Obviously. Brown sugar was my gateway drug into sweets.”
“Right? Same here. Never turned back. I’m convinced brown sugar ignited my lifetime love affair with yummy things.”
He sweeps the box into the shopping basket. “My words to live by: you can never have enough brown sugar, good tunes, and”—he stops to glance around the bougie gourmet store in Pacific Heights, then lowers his voice—“good sex.”
Mmm.
Those words rumble from his lips. They’re about more than the physical. “I like how you added an adjective before sex. It’s important to specify. Because bad sex is not worth having,” I say as we reach the spices, and I grab some cinnamon.
“You’re a woman after my own heart,” he says, and I want to shout, Yes. Yes, I am.