“Get down,” I order the dog.
He ignores me, licks McCarthy’s face, then plunges his whole furry muzzle into McCarthy’s soup bowl.
“No!” I shriek, trying to grab the greedy little dog. “Gross, Truman.”
McCarthy tips his head back and laughs.
“Geez, you don’t have to eat that.” I swap our bowls around as Truman licks his face.
“Jenna never feeds you, does she?” he coos to the dog as he wipes at him with a napkin.
“Don’t bother. I’ll bathe him.”
“I’ll have him booked into a dog groomer,” McCarthy says like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
McCarthy takes sips of his soup, one arm around Truman, while I pick dog hair off my spoon. He lets Truman have the last of his grilled cheese.
“You should go lie down.” I pour out the last of the wine.
“I have actual wineglasses, you know, somewhere,” he says absently, following me to the stairs.
“Those things are top-heavy. Very dangerous if you’re drinking in bed or the tub.”
He’s twisting off his shirt absently. Probably the ritual he does every night—well, nights I’m not there.
McCarthy still seems a little shaky as I drag him onto the bed next to me. He stretches out on the rich cream sheets, wearing only his boxer briefs.
I cradle his head in my lap.
He nuzzles against my stomach like a big panther, almost purring as I stroke his hair and his back, idly petting him, slowly tracing the muscles of his arms, pressing slightly against his ribs to feel him breathe.
Yep, I’m obsessed.
His shoulders rotate, and he’s nuzzling against me harder.
“I can’t live without you, Jenna. You know that?” He’s mouthing me through my shorts.
The wine is making everything hazy.
“I think you’re what I’ve been waiting for my entire life.”
Don’t do it.I squeeze my eyes shut even as my heart blooms with warmth.
I grab his shoulders, his muscles flexing as he grabs my shorts and pulls them down.
“You mean everything to me, Jenna. I’m so obsessed with you.”
He glances up. His gray eyes burn with… lust? Obsession? No, it’s love for me! All for me!
It’s not,I try to tell myself, but the logic gets messed up in the drunkenness.He doesn’t love me. It’s a trap.
The fairy-tale-obsessed girl in me desperately wants it to be real.
His tongue is flicking at my slit now.
“I’m gonna mess up your sheets,” I gasp.
“Easier to clean than my carpet, but you still made a mess of that.”
