Ronan
When she saidshe’d make us a drink, I thought maybe she meant a glass of wine. Or a cup of tea.
But she makes us hot chocolate.
I look at the cup she hands me with bemusement. There are marshmallows. And…
“A candy cane?” I ask, holding it out of the drink.
“It adds a nice peppermint flavor.”
“This is a giant cup of sugar,” I say with disgust.
“Chocolate is healthy.”
“A little dark chocolate. Maybe. But this is not dark chocolate.”
“Say thank you and drink your cup of delicious sugar.”
“Thank you,” I murmur and take a sip.
She watches me. “Good, right?”
“It’s good,” I acknowledge.
“Do you want to know the secret ingredient?”
It pops into my head that the secret ingredient is her. She makes everything special. But I don’t say shit like that.Except with her.
“The secret is condensed milk.”
I groan. “That’s worse than straight sugar.”
“But it’s soooooo good.”
I have to admit, it is good, even if it means I’ll have to double my workout tomorrow. And the sugar will keep me up half the night.
She grins up at me, her hazel eyes sparkling, more gold than green in the warm light of the kitchen.
Her smile has the strength of a fist. She steals my breath, takes my voice, knocks me sideways. The way she looked earlier, standing in the darkened hallway in just a threadbare shirt, is forever forged in my brain. I could see the outline of her curves, and I’m dying to explore each one with my hands and tongue. Her dusty pink areolas, her tight nipples, the way her waist nipped in and her hips rounded out. I can’t stop wondering what she was wearing beneath that shirt, if anything. Now she’s wrapped all that up in a demure robe.
Her hair falls in an artful mess of curls. She usually wears it up in a jaunty ponytail, a ribbon tied around it. The times I’ve fantasized about undoing that ribbon and watching her cinnamon hair tumble around her shoulders and down her back border on obsession.
I started a fire while she made the hot chocolate so we can drink it in the living room.
It would have been smarter and safer to stay in the kitchen, to sit on opposite ends of the island counter while we sip our drinks with the lights bright and a broad expanse of white marble between us.
Instead, we sit close in the dim light of the fire. There’s only one place we can set our drinks down—on the coffee table fronting the sofa. It’s a big couch, so there is lots of space between us. But it still feels intimate. She curls her legs up on the couch and faces me.
She takes a sip and then sets her drink down on the table.
“So, you can tell me to mind my own business. But I can’t help noticing that Belle doesn’t look happy when her mom calls. Is she okay?” she asks.
I don’t know how to answer her.
“I just want to be able to understand a little better so I can help. Belle,” she adds. She watches me as if I’m a wild animal with an injury that she has to approach warily.
“She doesn’t talk about her mom much.”
