He glanced around just in time to see her lean over and pick up the hospital pharmacy bag from where he’d set it on the low shelf by the front door.
Her legs stretched up to his shorts, and the round curve of her ass, in soft, smooth delicate curves.
Three years and the worst kind of betrayal hadn’t done shit to dull his reaction to the way she looked in his clothes.
Which you knew when you pulled shorts and not sweatpants out of that drawer, making this a self-inflicted wound.
No denying that.
In less than half a day, he’d gone from violently not wanting her anywhere near any part of his space to hoping she’d imprint her scent on at least a few of his things before she left again.
The frying pan spit an angry bit of butter at him, demanding his attention. Well, his omelette would be a little darker than hers. So be it.
“Where would I find glasses?”
He pointed to the cupboard.
She turned on the tap, and for a second, he had a flash back to the nights where she stayed over at his place and they cooked together. The cozy secret, the joy of moving through the kitchen in symbiotic effort.
His place in California had been spartan, but at least it was modern. And his dishes had matched. He’d been surprised she liked spending time there, but it had been nice.
Nothing aboutthiswas nice. Now his skin crawled with discomfort of having the most delicate creature in the world stretching up on her bare toes to dig around in his haphazard collection of things that can hold liquid.
When he turned off the element and plated his own omelette, Monica was sitting again.
At their respective place settings were his best water glasses—a mason jar, and a Leafs memorial mug. That’s the one she had chosen for herself, and her fingers gripped it now so tightly her knuckles were white.
Fuck.
“The doctor said rest was the most important thing,” Josh started, suddenly desperate to fill the silence. “And I don’t need to wake you every four hours. That’s outdated.”
She nodded.
“So I won’t. Bother you. You can sleep as long as you—”
“I can leave tomorrow.” Her voice was quiet. Final.
Of course she didn’t want to spend a second longer than necessary here.
“You don’t need to.”
“But I should.” She shrugged. “It’s a short flight to New York. But I really appreciate this. The food. And the bed.”
“Yeah.” He stabbed his plate.
She took two bites, then put her fork down. “I started my own business.”
He jerked his head up. “Oh. Good. Is it? Good?”
She nodded. “It’s hard.”
“Marketing?”
“Sort of. Yes, I mean. But not customer facing stuff.” She dropped her gaze to her plate. Took another bite.
He watched her chew. Liked the way she swallowed eagerly, then went back for more. He didn’t really want her gratitude for the bed—hated showing her this space, that it wasn’t nice enough yet—but he’d always liked feeding her.
“Neither of us ended up where we wanted to be,” she finally added, her gaze still locked on her plate.
