"Mallory..." he says, having no knowledge of the way I'm melting on the inside.
I'm already shaking my head, and he stops to let me talk. "Don't say that was a mistake."
A pleased smile tugs up one corner of his mouth. "Never. I was going to tell you that was the best kiss I've ever had."
I smile, too. Unabashedly. "Me, too."
He leans down. Brushes a kiss on my forehead. "Get some rest, Beautiful."
I practically purr. "Right back at you, Handsome."
Two minutes later with a hand between my legs, I lie in bed and envision him down the hall, doing the same.
Chapter 28
Mallory
For the restof the week, the inner workings of Summerhill keeps Hugo busy.
There are no more kisses, and we don't talk about it. We're not pretending it didn't happen, or at least I'm not. But Hugo is cautious now, careful. More than before. Like I'm made of glass.
I'm not allowing myself to dwell on it, and honestly, I'm busy too, poring over my notes, determining what could be made into episodes for the podcast.
It was a kiss that outshone all others, but I'm a woman with things to do.
On the way into town after our shopping trip, Hugo took me to my car so I could drive it back out to Summerhill. I used it earlier today to run to a store in town and find an oversized whiteboard and colorful markers. Putting everything in front of me visually helps me see things in a different way. Details that sit in the background get the chance to present themselves,and sometimes, it's the details that make all the difference.
Hugo told me to commandeer his dining room table, and that is precisely what I've done. I'm sitting here now, comfortable in a new pair of buttery soft leggings and matching tank top, sipping at my second decaf vanilla latte of the day.
I'd mentioned to Hugo in passing that I saw his sister at Sweet Nothings, and how Sal had made me the coffee drink. Now there's a fancy, sleek silver coffee machine on the kitchen counter. Decaf organic beans and vanilla syrup in the pantry. Whole milk in the fridge.
It's what friends do, right?
He made it clear we're friends, but the way his eyes drank me in in the fitting room says otherwise. And that kiss. Kisses that are mistakes don't feel so earth shattering.
I've learned enough about attraction to know oftentimes it has a mind of its own. The attraction we feel toward another person doesn't always make sense. Sometimes, it doesn't appear to fit. We think we have a type, and then out of nowhere, we're blindsided, inexplicably drawn to someone.
Hugo is my type. Hugo is every woman's type. Two short weeks with that man, and I already know the kind of person he is. A defender, protector. Generous, and kind. Loyal. He wouldn't be back at Summerhill, taking the reins of the family business, if it didn't require a little bit of all those traits.
Sitting back, I draw my legs up into my chest. Or I try to, at least. My stomach prevents it, so I have to splayopen my legs, prop them against either arm of the chair. It's not a good look, but it's comfortable. Coffee in hand, my eyes wander over my computer screen. I'm brainstorming concepts for episodes ahead of this afternoon's meeting with the marketers. I have no idea what they're going to want from me, but I can't show up empty-handed. I don't want to waste anybody's time.
At precisely noon, Hugo strolls into his house. This has been our routine over the last few days. He is out of the front door by seven in the morning, returning midday for lunch. That's when I take a break from my work and join him in the kitchen. The domesticity of it, the ease with which we assumed this ritual, should scare me, right? Maybe what I should fear is how much it doesn't scare me. Everything with Hugo feels easy. Good. He might be a relaxing sigh in human form, but he's also sex on legs. Some days when he walks in the door, dirty and sweaty from work, it's everything I can do not to pounce. Keeping myself from overheating has become a second job these days.
With envious eyes, I watch him assemble an Italian sandwich. Pepperoni, salami, capicola. I could close my eyes and taste the salty spice of the lunchmeat, but I settle for making a face at Hugo as I stir my chicken salad with diced celery and walnuts.
He grins knowingly. "I can eat on the porch if it's too much temptation for you."
Plating my sandwich, I say, "I can control myself." Am I only talking about the food? Definitely not. Maybe I'm saying it to remind myself. And if I say it enough times, it must be true, right?
"What's the first thing you're going to eat after Peanut is born?"
"A boatload of sushi," I answer without hesitation. "And then an Italian sub."
"Screaming Eel," Hugo says around his bite.
"Come again?" I ask, pulling out the island stool and taking a seat. Hugo grabs two soda waters from the fridge, pops the tops, and slides one over to me.
"Screaming Eel is a sushi restaurant." He stands on the other side of the island, facing me. "Normally I'd say to never trust a sushi restaurant in the middle of the desert, but that rule does not apply to Screaming Eel. I can take you there, after Peanut's born." We lock eyes over the island. A conversation happens in the silence.
