Tripp’s features are torn; his eyebrows stitch together with guilt, but the color in the irises just beneath them shines a bit brighter than it normally does.
He doesn’t handle guilt well. He never has. He handles it even less well when whatever it is that he’s feeling guilty about also happens to be something that’s made him feel good.
Reaching for his hand, I clasp it between mine. “I told you it was okay,” I remind him. “That wasn’t just talk.”
Pulling our joined hands to his lips, he presses a soft kiss to my skin.
“I think I get it,” he tells me. “It never had anything to do with me, did it?”
My teeth tug at my lower lip as it begs to pull into a smile, my brows stitching together with a shake of my head.
Moving my phone and e-reader to the table next to me, I pull off the blankets covering my legs. My fingers trail across the tattoos covering Tripp’s skin, slowly tracing up the length of his arm until I reach the line of his jaw.
“I love you, and I know you love me, too,” I tell him. “We made a thrift store wedding and romantic fast food dinners on the hood of the car work. If you want to, and if Connor does, we can make this work, too. I think it’s okay if we give ourselves room for more.”
His arms – toned, and stronger than one would expect them to be, just by looking at them – snake around my neck as he pulls me close to him. The warmth of his skin melts against mine,letting me breathe in the smell of his cologne and the night air clinging to him as I let myself melt into his embrace.
“Get into bed with me,” I tell him quietly. “I put my book down for you.”
He chuckles at that, reaching behind himself to pull his t-shirt over his head. Discarding it on the floor at the side of our bed, his arms envelop me again, wrapping me in his warmth to pull me onto the mattress with him.
As I pull the blankets over our bodies, Tripp’s arm tightens around me, pulling my body closer to his.
He talked to me tonight.
He thought something might upset me, he came home to me, and wetalkedto each other.
A loud ceramic clang pulls me from my sleep and the dreams that came with it, most of which vanish from memory as soon as I open my eyes.
Neither Tripp nor Drumstick are on the bed, the blankets of which have been tucked tightly around my body. My husband’s pillow is propped up and smoothed as if it hasn’t been used. The curtains are pulled back at our window to let the soft glow of balmy sunlight stream inside.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet land on a perfectly-placed pair of slippers. My favorites; soft and plush pink slippers with a set of matching bows at the tops of them. A blush creeps across my cheeks as I slide into them, quickly running my fingers through my hair to free any knots that may have formed while I slept.
It isn’t our anniversary, and my birthday isn’t for another several months from now.
What is he up to?
As I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen with a heavy yawn, I stop in awe at the scene ahead of me.
Plates stacked with all of our favorite breakfast foods are laid out on the table like a buffet. Tripp and Connor stand at the stove with their backs to me while they work together to make more food.
It’s not the first time that I’ve woken up to find the two of them making breakfast together – or a late lunch, if Connor had stayed and slept on our couch after a long night out. Those mornings, the two of them are usually leaning on each other or barely holding themselves up, because they don’t know how to behave – or pace themselves - when they’re out together.
Pulling my usual chair from the table, I settle into it, smiling at the glass of orange juice already waiting next to my place mat.
“This is unexpected,” I say as I reach for the glass.
Both of them look over their shoulders to me, smiles tugging at their lips before they look to each other. A conversation passes between them, spoken only with their eyes and a soft nod from my husband, before Tripp reaches forward to turn the heat off on the stove.
“I asked Connor to come by so we could all talk together.” Setting a selection of utensils onto the table as the two of them take their seats, he says, “I figure, if we’re gonna try this, we need to set some rules. Or boundaries, or whatever.”
My eyes snap to him, then to Connor, who offers me a smile.
I had some idea that we might have this conversation when Tripp came home and told me that he’d kissed Connor, but to actually be having it, butterflies are filling my stomach so much that it feels like I might explode.
“Rule number one,” Connor says as he pulls a small stack of pancakes onto his plate, “I’m not a booty call. Whatever kind of label we decide to put on this thing, I’m here for more than just sex.”
“Of course,” I nod, blinking.
