Without looking up, he taps the bookmark that’s still sitting snug at the halfway mark. A gift from him years ago. The book itself is also from him.
I toss the towel over an open drawer on my tallboy and head across the room to the built-in wardrobe, the dark-grey carpet soft under my feet. It’s still fucking freezing—winter is well and truly kicking in now—and we haven’t turned any heating on, but I know how hot Spencer runs, so I only grab a new pair of briefs, tugging them on.
“Did you have a good shower?”
I’m not answering that. I got off, and he’s more than aware of that. There’s no use talking about the rest of it. “Did you set an alarm?” I ask instead, changing the subject to something somewhat safer. As if any conversation is safe. He could be reading a shopping list, and my body would still react to him.
“One hour,” Spencer confirms. “I sent Six a text, letting him know what we need.”
That makes me pause. “He’s at work already?” It’s early even for him and his workaholic boyfriend.
“Don’t think so. He hasn’t replied.”
The second I slide in beside him, he closes the book and drops it on the bedside table. He flicks off the lamp, and we’re plunged into complete darkness, the curtains closed and blocking everything out.
“Your hair’s still wet,” Spencer says, running a hand through it. Even like this, the curls are still firmly in place. A curse inherited from my mother. It’s not a good idea to go to bed with it still dripping like this; it gets the pillow all wet and ends up even more unruly than usual when I wake up. I’m too tired to bring myself to care. It’s already going to be a long day, and I’m not wasting nap time drying my hair.
“Yeah.”
He twirls a strand around his index finger, then uses the hold to tug me forward into a light kiss. A whimper almost slips out before I bite it back. The urge to flick his lips open with my tongue and dive in is too strong after that shower.
“Turn around for me?” he whispers, granting me reprieve. As soon as I do, he tugs me back and into his arms, his breath warm and caressing the back of my neck. The heat from his chest, like a hot water bottle, will keep me warm for as long as I need.
He rests his palm over my heart, the gesture so fucking appropriate that it hurts.
Chapter four
Spencer
When I wake, Kendrick’sside of the bed is cold, and he’s not in the room. Did he even sleep? A quick check of my phone says I have about three minutes before the alarm’s due to go off. An hour power nap before we have to keep going. I can’t remember the last time Kendrick’s slept all the way through the night, but I didn’t think it’d gotten so bad that he struggles with an hour at a time.
I don’t like it.
Not bothering to do more than tug on a pair of Kendrick’s pants and tying them so they don’t fall down, I go in search of the man in question. He’s easy to find since he’s in the kitchen, only wearing low-slung sweatpants and frying—damn, are those pancakes?
“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” There’s a plate of them, still steaming, just waiting for me. Picking one up, I take abite quickly before he can take it off me, already anticipating the grab he tries.
“They’re not ready, put it down.”
“Tastes pretty cooked to me,” I say through my mouthful. Definitely cooked. And delicious. Though it needs some toppings to really make it shine.
He moves the plate out of my reach, keeping aggressive eye contact as if that’s any kind of deterrent. Unfortunately for him, I have legs, I know how to use them, and those pancakes are mine.
“Make yourself useful and get the lemon juice out of the fridge.” He lifts his arm, twisting his wrist to look at his watch. “We have to go soon.”
“If you’d let me eat the pancakes right now, we could leave sooner.”
“The fridge, Spence.”
The pancakes are right there in my path, so naturally, I have to grab another one. He gives me a look but doesn’t attempt another theft. Good, because I’m not above shoving the whole thing in my mouth. Snagging the canister of sugar on my way back, I set both beside the plate of pancakes.
We eat standing up, shoulders pressed together, sharing the same plate, occasionally feeding each other.
Despite the early hour, I can hear his neighbour shuffling around their place, the walls too thin for any real privacy. I bet if I kicked hard enough, I could put my foot through it. I hate this place. It’s not a terrible place to live, exactly, and the neighbourhood is relatively okay. I still like my place better. My furniture matches, my bed is bigger, and I paid a small fortune for my oven so that Kendrick can cook to his heart’s content there. Purely selfish reasons, of course, because I need his food in my life. Most of all, there’s actual privacy, where we can’t hear everyone around us like we’re in a shared house.
Also, my fish are there. My fish team, each one named after the team, get lonely if I spend too many nights here. The only solution is to have Kendrick at mine, permanently.
“I want you to move in with me.”
