I look at him in confusion. “But… but you have a standing order for it. You get pissed if your friends eat a carton.”
“Think. Who else in the house likes the flavor?”
My eyes widen. “You keep it stocked.For me?”
“For you. But also for me. Because it calms you down. A few bites and it’s like an injection of Valium. So I’m smart enough to have it readily available at all times.”
The world rearranges itself.
My ex-boss kept my favorite ice cream stocked in his fridge and told all his gueststouch it and die. He did this for years. I know he says it was partially for his own benefit and… fair. But still.
I process this deeply confusing information as we walk around the picturesque town. He says it’s because he doesn’t want melting ice cream on the leather of the Porsche convertible he rented, but he leads me into every store I show interest in. Even the stationery shop where I pick out a ridiculous number of pretty pens and highlighters in vintage-toned colors. I try to pay, but he refuses to let me.
When we make it back to the Porsche, I get in, feeling more relaxed than I have in years.
I twist my hair into a quick updo to keep it from getting messed up in the convertible and wait for him to start the car, but he’s watching me intently.
“What?” I ask in confusion.
“You have a little ice cream…” He brushes the corner of my lip with one finger. Butterflies break out at the feel of his touch on my skin.
I’m undone.
He leans in, and in the slowest and most sensual of gestures, he brushes his mouth against mine. Electric tingles shoot through me. I make a small gasping sound at the sensation.
And then helicks. He freaking licks the corner of my upper lip where his finger had been.
My breath halts. My heart pounds. I’m dizzy, and this time, it’s not because of a concussion. It’s because of this magnetic man beside me, who makes all my senses go haywire with the barest whisper of a kiss.
When he finally shifts away, he’s watching my mouth, which is now in a shocked O shape.
“W—wha… Wh…?” I shake my head against the fog that’s descended. “What was that?” I ask, too surprised to mince words.
“Just tasting. I’m starting to see mint chip’s appeal,” he says with a teasingly brilliant gleam in his eye.
“Oh. Uhm. Okay.”
“Are you feeling sick?”
I shrug, embarrassed. I’mcertainhe’s referring to the other day.
“A gentleman wouldn’t bring that up.”
“Oh, Em, we’ve already determined that I’m no gentleman. But I’m bringing that up because it’s pertinent information.”
“Why?”
“Because. It occurred to me that we might need topracticebeing comfortable in intimate scenarios. Engaged people kiss. So I want to see what you’re ready for.”
“I think I’m probably okay if I keep my eyes open.”
His eyes dance. “Remember that. And maybe we need a safe word.”
I hit him. But laugh as well.
Then he turns his attention to the road and, with a capable confidence that’s supremely attractive, he smoothly drives the car out of the parking space and onto the road.
I’m left wondering what kind of relationship we have now. I don’t work for him anymore. But he wouldn’t leave my hospital room. He took up residence in my apartment. We were cuddle buddies. We’re fake engaged. We almost kissed. Twice.
