"Yes, I am." I chuckled into her hair. "Am I wrong in thinking you're enjoying this?"
"Not wrong," she said on a sigh.
"That's what I like to hear," I replied.
She dragged her nails up and down my forearm. It was heaven. "But that's not the issue. You said you could touch me without going anywhere near my undies and I believe I've disproven that theory."
"In that case, I'll be wrong any time you want it." I tucked her hair over her ears and dropped a kiss on her temple. This time, I was the one to pull away first. Given my condition, I had to. My boxers were rapidly shifting from pleasantly wet to uncomfortably soggy. "I'll be right back," I said, crouching down to catch her eyes. "Are you all right?" She pressed her fingertips to her lips, nodding. "Okay. Stay right there. Don't move a muscle. Got it?"
I stared down at her, waiting for a response. Her lashes brushed her reddened cheeks and she kept her fingers on her lips. Eventually, she inclined her head to the side and said, "Got it."
I stepped away from Annette and the loss of her heat sent a shiver through my shoulders. As I marched down the hall, I unbuckled my trousers and opened my shirt, ready to toss both in the hamper when I reached my room.
It didn't take long to clean up and change into a fresh pair of boxers and shorts, but every minute felt like one too many. I wanted to be back in the kitchen, pressed up against Annette and whispering every depraved thing I'd ever thought into her hair. She smelled like sweetness there; vanilla, sugar, spice. That scent gave me ideas, ideas that flew in the face of everything I believed. I wanted her in the kitchen, wearing nothing more than a frilly apron and her feet bare. I wanted her sitting in my lap and feeding me pie.
"I'm losing my damn mind," I murmured to myself as I zipped my shorts.
When I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I was faced with two facts.
One, Annette was still here. Given our history, I wasn't convinced she'd stick around when the afterglow faded. This was good news.
Two, she hadn't followed directions. She was busy slicing a tomato as if she owned the place. This was also good news. I wanted her to feel like she owned the place. I would've enjoyed some direction-following, but I'd survive.
Tugging a t-shirt over my head, I asked, "Didn't I tell you not to move a muscle?"
She eyed my torso for a beat, studying me as if she was deciding whether I met her criteria. I hoped to hell that I did. "You said something," she replied, waving the knife. "I don't recall the specifics."
"I'll forgive you this time." I grabbed two bottles of beer and knocked the tops off. "But only because the refrigerator is not the most interesting place to hang out."
She took the beer I offered, remarking, "Nor is it the most comfortable."
I smoothed my hand down her back and tugged her closer. "Did I hurt you? Was that too much?"
"I'm good," she replied, glancing up at me with a tight grin. Then she blinked, and a wall came down. We weren't discussing the refrigerator games any further. "Let's get this dinner going, okay? What can I do? These tomatoes were too good to miss so I got started on them."
We worked together to prepare the meal and chatted about our days. I'd grown accustomed to living alone and this domestic back-and-forth was like speaking a language I'd learned years ago and nearly forgotten. I liked that language. I wanted to speak it more often and I wanted to speak it with Annette.
"What is this?" Annette asked, pointing inside the refrigerator.
I followed her gesture to the shelf of plastic-wrapped plates and jerked a shoulder up in response. "Food," I answered.
"Yeah, sure," she replied, still pointing. "But what's the story? These aren't your dishes."
She wasn't wrong. I had a rainbow of dishes and plastic food storage containers, none of them mine. "They are not," I replied slowly. "But I intend to return them to their rightful owners."
"But…but what is this all about?" she asked, inspecting a plate of pork chops and cauliflower. Lord, I hated cauliflower. I didn't have the heart to tell Mrs. Mulcahey that but I hadn't eaten a bite of cauliflower since I was a kid. Not even those weird purple and yellow cauliflowers my mother grew in her garden. I was no fool. Being purple didn't make it any better. "There's a story here and I don't think I can close the refrigerator until I hear it."
I set my knife down with a quiet groan. "The ladies in this neighborhood, they bring me meals. Dinner plates, zucchini breads, a Crock-Pot of meatballs. It's always something. I didn't ask them to," I added when Annette's brows shot up. "They just come by with a plate or two."
And a story about their single daughter or sister or friend being perfect for me.
"It's more than I can eat," I continued, "but I don't want to insult them."
Annette dragged her gaze away from the chops to eye me up and down. "You seem like the kind of guy who can manage an extra plate or two without complaint," she said. "You have that eats-raw-eggs-for-breakfast look about you."
"I'm taking that as a compliment," I murmured, returning to the cutting board.
"By all means." Annette retrieved a few items from the refrigerator and set them beside me. "Should I expect Meals on Wheels to stop by tonight?"
