Pulling it open, I step inside and breathe a sigh of relief because, no joke, it’s still cold as hell outside. We can thank the lake for that. I make my way up the stairs. When I reach the top, I see she’s already got the door open for me.
Maggy reaches for the bags in my hands. Peering inside the brown bag from the restaurant, she asks, “Where’syourfood?”
Not sure why, but her question surprises me. “Already ate.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” I’m giving it some thought when she adds, “I was just going to make myself a cup of hot chocolate.”
“That sounds great.” I haven’t had hot chocolate since… “Thanks.”
I move over to the island and watch as she pulls out a saucepan from a lower cabinet. She adds milk and powdered cocoa and stirs.
Damn. She’s makingrealhot chocolate. Not that shit in the little packets.
“Do you prefer marshmallows or whipped cream?”
My mind goes a little haywire thinking about her question. Why do I suddenly have the urge to dootherthings with whipped cream? “Erm, marshmallows, please.”
Better safe than sorry.
“Really?” she asks, looking perplexed. She’s adorable with furrowed brows. “Whipped cream is da bomb in my hot chocolate.”
Damn. I just bet it’s the bomb elsewhere. “Okay. I’ll have what you’re having.” That’s all I can say because my mind is on the memory of her—that night—on my bed, and my dick gets hard before I know it.
I guess I’m not moving from this stool anytime soon.
“Here you go.” She sets a mug in front of me. Steam has made its way around the curl of whipped topping. I lift it to my mouth; it smells so damn delicious. Carefully, I take a sip and moan at the flavor.
“Good, right?” Her smile is breathtaking. “I added milk chocolate at the end just like my mom used to do.”
I take another big sip. “Your mom is the bomb.” Was. Shewasthe bomb. I peek over my cup at her and notice the blush across her cheeks. I hope I haven’t said the wrong thing, because those blue eyes are getting glassy again.
“She was. She really was.”
“How did she…”
“Cancer.”
“When?”
“Seventeen months ago.”
But who’s counting?
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
We drink in silence until she says, “Thank you for the food.”
“You’re welcome. Uh, I heard you’re still on bed rest.”
“Fucking Gus,” she says, then laughs. “What’s his deal?”
“No idea.” Well, yeah, I do know his deal. He thinks I’m a giant asshole for not wanting to have anything to do with this kid. But he doesn’t have a clue. “You should eat while it’s still warm.”
She reaches into the bag and pulls out the soup first, then the sandwich. Opening the box, she smiles. “This looks great.”
“Next time, I’ll get you a burger.”
