"I have to leave in five minutes," she says, glancing at her phone.
"I know."
"You should probably leave too. People talk in this town."
"Let them talk."
"Easy for you to say. You don't have Mrs. Patterson asking invasive questions during routine cat checkups."
"I have Javi asking invasive questions during routine truck maintenance. It's basically the same thing."
She sets down her mug and turns to face me. "So we're doing this? Actually doing this?"
"Unless you've changed your mind in the last three minutes."
"I haven't."
"Then yeah. We're doing this."
She kisses me—soft and sweet and tasting like coffee—and it takes everything I've got not to haul her back to the bedroom and make her late for all her appointments.
"Go," she says against my mouth.
"Going."
"Dean."
"What?"
"Your truck keys are still in your pocket. You haven't moved."
"I'm building willpower."
"Build it outside."
I steal one more kiss—deeper this time, thorough enough that she makes a small sound and grabs my shirt—and then I'm walking backward toward her front door like an idiot who can't stop looking at her.
"You're going to trip," she warns.
"Worth it."
"Text me later."
"Definitely texting you later. Might text you in five minutes."
"Please don't. I'll be elbow-deep in a Labrador with an ear infection."
"Sexy."
"Goodbye, Bingo."
The door shuts behind me, and I stand on her front porch smiling like a complete disaster while Biscuit watches me through the window with deep disapproval.
My phone buzzes before I even reach my truck.
Callie: You're still standing on my porch.
I look up. She's watching from her bedroom window, coffee mug in hand, smiling.
