Is it hot in here, or just me?I take off my shacket, earning myself a raised brow from Liam then a smirk, as if he can read my mind, making my cheeks darken.
He keeps his eyes locked on mine as I hear his voice telling me to sit on his face, telling me I’m a good girl. I can feel his fingers trace my spine, feel his heart beat against mine . . . I need to look away. My breathing is getting heavier, but I can’t pull my gaze away from him. My stomach clenches at the thought of breaking the connection.
Finally, he breaks the hold he has on me, leans back in, and tells me to behave.
Jesus . . . this man. I need to behave, yet he can read my mind and get me hot and bothered in the middle of a coffee shop.Enough,I tell myself as I do an internal shake to bring my thoughts back to an appropriate nature.
I need a distraction. Looking around, I finally take in the shop. The front is a coffee counter with some pastries on display. To the left, the room opens up to a bunch of tables with colorful plastic chairs. The far wall is floor-to-ceiling shelving showcasing dozens of ceramic items to paint. Thecounter along the window at the front of the space has paint in every color imaginable.
Our turn to order comes up and Liam orders two vanilla lattes with oat milk and two blueberry muffins, my favorite. I pick up my coffee and the plate with both muffins for us as we make our way to the painting area, selecting a quiet table in the back corner away from the other patrons. He set our coffee mugs down on the table and I wish I would have ordered an iced coffee, because yes, I’m still running hot from my earlier thoughts. It doesn’t help that the thoughts are still in the background of my mind.
“What do you want to paint?” Liam asks, as we stand in front of the wall of options.
“I’m not sure. Too many options,” I tell him, fingering a little mushroom figurine. “How about you?”
“Something you can put a plant in,” he answers, grabbing a simple pot.
“Something I can put a plant in?” I ask, turning toward him. “I thought I had more than enough?” I sass.
“Yeah, well, someone told me it was impossible to have too many plants,” he says, putting the pot away to grab a bigger one. “Plus, I figured we could stop at a nursery I found online not far from here.”
And just like that, my heart melts that much more. “Then new pots are a must,” I agree, grabbing the one he just put back and throwing him a wink before dropping off my painting project on our table and going to pick out some colors.
“I’m thinking a strawberry motif, how about you?” I ask him, pouring some light pink, red, and green into oneof the provided palettes, then grabbing a couple of paint brushes.
“I don’t know, something pink,” he answers, filling every one of the six spots with a different shade of pink.
“Pink?” I ask, as we make our way back to our table.
“Yeah, Rosie. I noticed it was still your favorite color.”
I raise a brow in question as I drop our brushes, palettes, and my project on our table.
“I know you, Sloane. Every single pair of comfy socks you have are pink, not to mention your favorite blanket is pink,” he says, selecting the thickest brush and dipping it in a blush pink color.
I freeze, coffee cup halfway to my mouth. He’s too concentrated on his task at hand to notice how much his words have affected me. Once again, he has me completely blown away by his attention to detail. He doesn’t forget anything, and he wasn’t lying about me being on his mind over the years.
“Don’t act surprised, Rosie,” he says, not looking up from his painting. “I told you I remember everything, and you’re too tempting for me not to notice everything about you. Plus, you’re painting your own planter pink right now.”
After his last comment, we keep painting in silence, sharing glances here and there as our feet touch under the table, hands grazing as we rinse our brushes.
The rest of the morning goes by in a blur, and mostly in silence, as we keep exchanging glances and small touches. Everything gets more and more heated as the seconds go by. I never thought of plant shopping as foreplay, but by the time we get home, I rush to my room to change my underwear.
Chapter 32
I love every side of Sloane, but after this morning, a hot and bothered Sloane is my new favorite. It used to be sassy, eye-rolling Sloane, but now it’s definitely hot-and-bothered Sloane.
She spent the entire morning blushing and clenching her thighs. She couldn’t run to her bedroom fast enough when we got home—didn’t even water her new plants, just dropped them in her kitchen and quickly walked to her bedroom, making me chuckle.
I bend down to carefully take off my shoes, giving her a head start before following her to her room. Stopping at her door, I ask myself the question that my therapist made me promise I’d ask myself before taking any step toward intimacy with Sloane, to make sure I’m ready and won’t freak out after taking this next step with her.
I’d sayagain, but my therapist told me to view this as a clean slate. To take this as a new start toward this aspect of our relationship.
Am I ready to be stripped down? Am I ready to bare it all?
Yes. I’ve laid most of it at her feet already. She knows everything—my weaknesses, my insecurities. She knows and has seen it all at this point.
I take a deep breath before knocking twice on her bedroom door. The door wasn’t closed properly, though, so my knocks cause it to open and the air is knocked out of my lungs.
