I’m tired of being shoved to the side. I’mtiredof feeling like my voice doesn’t matter. I’m tired of working against all these things that don’t feel good instead of running toward the things thatdofeel good.
I shove the blanket off my lap and stand. “You know, I actually really like pizza.”
I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “That makes two of us.”
“And it just so happens that homemade pizza night was always my favorite growing up.”
“Makes sense why this one is calling out your name, then.”
I blow out a breath and push that nasty feeling aside that finally does appear—the one that tells me I’m doing something I shouldn’t be. It doesn’t feel fair saying no to people andsituations that make me feel alive again. That make me feel more than what happened to me.
It just so happens that Dawson is good at it.
That he listens, that he cares, that he’sthere.
Dawsonand I stare down at our pizza creations on his kitchen counter, and we bust out in laughter. The real kind. The kind that starts in your belly and creates tiny teardrops in your eyes. It’s been so long since I’ve laughed this hard, and it makes my ribs hurt, side stitches pinching the skin there.
The pizza kit he had didn’t have premade dough pies but a ball of it that we had to turn into circular shapes. It was a lot harder to work with—because Dawson didn’t follow the directions properly by letting it thaw out totally. Which led to overworking the dough and making it difficult to form.
“Why does yours look like a banana?” I ask, our laughter dying down as I lift my brow in curiosity. I tilt my head, hoping it might make it look different. It doesn’t. “It looks like it shrunk, and obviously not in a very proportional manner.”
He cants his head to the side, mirroring me with his arms crossed against his chest. “It does appear that way, doesn’t it?”
“I really hope it doesn’t taste as bad as it looks.”
He scoffs, his warmth sneaking around me and holding me tight, even though he’s simply standing next to me. “You say that like yours is any better.” He points at my pizza. “Yours is a taco.”
I’m still wearing a big smile as I say, “No one ever says no to a pizza taco.”
He scrunches his nose, his glasses pushing up on his face. I admire the way his soft curls fall over his forehead after a long day of work. A stream of questions run through my head; howmany patients does he see a day, are all of them working through trauma like I am, are there ever days he gets tired of doing what he does?
It’s almost unfair how handsome he is. His gentleness only amplifies it. He has the kind of traits ladies would kill for in a man, in a marriage.
“They do when it has black olives as a topping,” he says, drawing me out of my thoughts and making me snap back to the topic at hand; taco-shaped pizzas. “I can’t believe you eat that garbage.”
I twist toward him, placing my hands on my hips. “Rude!”
His eyes have the nerve to take in my face, small creases at the edges of his own. They’re the kind that tell me he’s enjoying himself, that he’s happy and filled with joy. “What’s rude is the way they stink up your tongue when you eat them.”
I grab the pizza cutter off the counter and start slicing my pizza into manageable pieces. “Food can’t ‘stink up your tongue,’ Dawson.”
I bring a square of it to my mouth, leaning against the counter as I chew. A groan works up my throat because it’s justthatgood. Way better than the peanut butter and banana sandwich I would’ve eaten at home.
“It absolutely can,” he says beside me, cutting his own once I hand over the cutter.
“You can’t know for sure if you’ve never tried it.” I give him a pointed look, taking another bite as I slowly watch him pop a jalapeno in his mouth—his one-topping choice.
His tongue sweeps out across his lip, and I watch, reveling in the way it slips back into his mouth to taste the spiciness of the pepper.
I reach my hand out, indicating that I’d love it if he tried mine. I wiggle it close to his face as I chew, truly enamoredby our back and forth and how it hasn’t been awkward at all between us—like I thought it would be on my drive over.
His hand circles around my wrist in a tender manner. Just like his words do every damn time they leave his mouth. I don’t know if he realizes it, but his thumb brushes over my soft skin, sending a chill down my back as it settles on my pulse point.
“There’s absolutely no way I’m eating that.” He shoves a whole three-by-three piece of pizza into his mouth as he looks at me, his hand slowly letting go. His cheeks puff out with food, and I squint at him in amusement. Mumbling around the food, he adds, “I’d much rather a slew of other things with much better flavor and fulfillment.”
My heart jumps because is he talking about…?
I push the thought out of my head. There’s no way that’s possible. I’m only thinking it is because it’s been forever since I’ve been intimate with Lance.
