“Yeah, I am.”
I drive to Superstore without incident, and even manage to park. Granted, I chose a spot far from the door, where there were no other cars nearby, but it’s still an achievement.
“See?” Drew says as I turn off the ignition. “Piece of cake.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “No problem.”
But I’m damned proud of myself as I get out of the car.
We both agree that I’ve done enough driving for the day, so when we finish shopping, Drew drives us home. When we’ve put away the groceries, we go for a run along the waterfront. I consider myself a pretty good runner, but it’s clear that Drew is too, and he has no trouble keeping up with me.
I spend the rest of the afternoon making chicken lasagna while Drew goes into the hospital to catch up on some admin work. He makes it home at a reasonable hour, and we eat dinner together in front of the TV. He lets me pick the show tonight, and we watchGrace Generalagain.
“No criticism of this episode?” I tease Drew, who’s been pretty quiet tonight. “Is the medicine more accurate?”
“More like I’ve gotten used to it,” he says. “Nothing these people do can shock me anymore.”
“But you have to admit, it’s good entertainment.”
Drew frowns. “Do I have to admit that?”
“I guess you don’t,” I concede. “I know you like it.”
He rolls his eyes and sets his plate on the coffee table. “I’ll admit that your lasagna was delicious,” he says. “Thanks for making dinner.”
“No problem.”
After we finish the episode, Drew grabs his laptop, which fortunately survived last night’s incident unscathed. While he works on his research paper, I curl up with a book.
And at around ten-thirty, Drew yawns. “I’m exhausted,” he says. “I think I’m going to head to bed.”
“Okay.”
He disappears down the hall, and five minutes later, I put down my book and head to the bathroom. I wash my face and brush my teeth, then pull on an oversized t-shirt.
Then I walk down the hall toward Drew’s room. The light’s on and the door’s wide open, which I take as a sign; up until last night, he always kept his bedroom door shut tight.
I still have some doubts—maybe Drew really is exhausted, and maybe he thought last night was a one-time thing.
But either way, I need to know. I walk through the door and find Drew lying on his back, with his hands crossed behind his head. A smile tugs at his lips when he sees me.
“That’s my t-shirt,” he says.
“Yeah.” It’s the t-shirt he lent me the first night I was here. “I assumed it was a long-term loan.”
Translation: I’m planning to keep it.
“You assumed wrong,” he says sternly. “I’d like it back immediately.”
I grin and pull the shirt over my head, and Drew catches his breath. I’m not wearing anything underneath it.
“Come here, Ally,” he says, and I do.
TWENTY-SIX
ALLY
My visits to Drew’s bedroom become routine. We never discuss it during the day, but every night he leaves his door open and I walk through it. And every night, it’s hungry and heated, and tender and sweet.
