“This isincredible, Theo,” he said for probably the fourth time, cutting another piece of pork. “I mean it. I’ve eaten at some fancy places, but this is better than anything I’ve had in a restaurant.”
The warmth in his voice, the authentic appreciation, made something flutter in my chest that had nothing to do with cooking and everything to do with the way he was looking at me.
Like I was someone worth impressing.
Like I was someone whose efforts really mattered to him.
“I’m glad you like it,” I said, trying to sound casual, even though his praise was making me feel like I could float right out of my chair.
When we finally finished eating, and Jeremiah insisting on having seconds of everything despite claiming he was “definitely going to explode,” I started to gather the plates.
“Leave them,” Jeremiah said, catching my wrist gently. “I’ll help you clean up later.”
“But the glaze will stick if it sits too long, and—”
“Later,” he repeated, his thumb tracing a small circle against my pulse point. “Come on. Let’s go relax.”
Damn that pulse point.
I let him guide me toward the living room, my skin all tingly where he’d touched me. As we walked, his hand moved to the small of my back, his fingers drawing more circles through my shirt that sent little thrills racing up my spine. They were such simple touches, barely there really, but they made me hyperaware of every point of contact between us.
We settled onto the couch, and as I reached for the remote, without any discussion or awkwardness, Jeremiah threw his arm around my shoulders and pulled me against his side.
Like we’d done this a thousand times before.
Like this was exactly where I belonged.
I fumbled with the remote and scrolled through options, finally settling on something light and familiar—a romantic comedy I’d seen enough times to follow even if I wasn’t paying complete attention.
“Good choice,” Jeremiah murmured, his breath warm against my neck.
For the first twenty minutes or so, we actually watched the movie.
I was tucked against Jeremiah’s side, his arm solid and warm around me, occasionally laughing at the predictable jokes and comfortable banter on screen.
It was nice.
It was normal.
It was the kind of thing couples did all the time.
Then Jeremiah started playing with my hair.
It began innocently enough—just his fingers carding through strands that had fallen across my forehead, pushing them back in a gesture that seemed almost unconscious; but then his touch lingered, his fingertips tracing along my scalp in a way that made me shiver.
“Your hair is so soft,” he said quietly, his voice lower than it had been before, almost a growl.
I tilted my head to look up at him, and something in his eyes made my breath catch.
The movie was still playing, but neither of us was watching anymore.
Almost without thinking, I let my hand drift to his thigh, my palm settling against the warm denim drawn tight against the hard muscle beneath. I felt him tense slightly, but it wasn’t the kind of tension that said stop—it was the kind that begged for more.
So I let my fingers trace patterns against his leg, feeling the firmness, the worked-out solidity of his body, respond to my touch.
“Theo,” he rumbled, and there was something in the way he said my name that made heat pool low in my stomach.
I shifted to fully face him, almost squaring our shoulders, and suddenly we were closer than we’d been before, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, close enough to count his eyelashes if I’d wanted to.
