“What’s this?” He strokes a finger over my skin.
“I, uh, remember,” I admit.
His brows fly up. “What?”
“I remember saying it.”
“But you acted like you didn’t.”
I groan and bury my face in my hands. “It was the fever. I didn’t mean to?—”
“Beg me to kiss you?”
I lift up, glare at him. “I wasn’t begging.”
“No?”
“No.” I scowl, shoving lightly at his chest. He captures my hand, presses a kiss to my palm.
A chuckle, then he tucks me against his side. “Have dinner with me tomorrow?”
I frown.
Because we eat dinner together almost every night.
“A date, Stitch,” he murmurs. “I want to take you on one. Tomorrow night. I’ll get a sitter for Chloe. We’ll have dinner. I’ll teach you to skate.”
“I—”
“Just say yes.”
“I—”
“Say yes, Stitch.”
I lean up, slant my mouth over his, kissing him with all the pent-up emotions of the last months. “I’m trying to,” I say tartly as I pull back.
He grins, nips at my bottom lip.
“Okay then,” he murmurs. “Say yes.”
Sighing, I shake my head. “Yes.”
A fist pump before he snags the remote, turning on my documentary, handing me the cocktail I’ve mixed up, snagging the one I made for him and sipping. “Oh, that’s good,” he murmurs.
Of course it is.
I made it.
“You know what else would be good?” I tease, but I don’t wait for him to answer. “More kissing.”
His lips twitch. “You deserve more, baby.” Then his eyes go serious. “Let me give it to you?” My heart flutters and I open my mouth to say…hell, I don’t know what. Before I can, he’s stroking my cheek, drawing me a little closer, and ordering jokingly, “Think about the next braid you’re going to teach me.”
I give in and settle my head on his shoulder.
Not that it’s a burden to cuddle up to him, cocktail in hand, documentary on TV as we talk about nothing important.
Just us—just me.
