I gasp, placing a hand on my chest in a faux offense.
While he sets the table, I pull out the contents. Roasted chicken and vegetables on a bed of sweet potatoes. He looks from the dish to me with a dip of his chin.
“I think you want to move from girlfriend to wife,” he says in a playful tone.
“You would have gone to your knees even without me cooking,” I say, the self-assuredness taking me by surprise.
“I would.”
A shaky breath tumbles out of my mouth. It feels like we stopped being playful and the conversation has turned serious. Friends shouldn’t talk about such serious topics.
Eyes locked, the connection between us sizzles with the knowledge only our hearts admit.
We eat in thick silence, and that reminds me we need distance once again. I am about to suggest that, but it’s like he senses whenever I pull away. He throws the anchor straight in my chest, roping me in with such ease, reminding me how naïve it is of me to even think I could distance myself from him.
“Play a video game with me,” he suggests, his tone insistent.
I give in. “Ready to get your ass kicked?”
“Keep dreaming, flower girl.”
The tension diffuses as we embark once again on blissful ignorance.
We move onto the plush rug, our backs leaning against the foot of the sofa.
The asshole keeps finding me and killing me off. I burn his side with a deadly stare.I’ll show you.
After I take him down, I shoot up. Raising my hands in the air, I bounce up and down, not containing my excitement. “I won. I won.”
He raises a perfectly thick eyebrow. “You killed me once. The score is 10 to 1.”
I stick my tongue out. “You’re a lousy loser.”
He bends over, laughing. The rich, deep sounds fill my insides—like a helium balloon cut free and flying straight into the sky.
We keep playing and I kill him two more times. I call it a startling success, refusing to acknowledge the end score.
When we go to bed, I turn around and we meet in the middle. He kisses the dip of my neck and turns around—back to back. It’s intimate. We always fall asleep in that position and wake up a tangled mess, which we ignore as usual.
We’reboth in the bathroom, getting ready for the day. While he brushes his teeth, I style my hair—domesticated paradise.
I love everything about his loft, from the open space to the darker tones and wood accents. But the bathroom is my favorite. It’s spacious and features all the finest amenities, including an ample sink, a mirror occupying the entire wall, and a shower with an integrated bench. The shower head sprays down in different settings, jets massaging your whole body from various angles. Not to mention the tub that can fit three people.
He catches me gazing at the tub. “You can use it whenever you want.”
This feels like agreeing to more. I wouldn’t even be surprised if we end up moving in together and only to realize it years later.We disregard facts and whatever happens between us with such proficiency that we could be studied for a mental disorder.
I clear my throat. “Any plans after the Super Bowl?”
Even though he’s not flashing his wealth, he has enough money to afford pretty much anything. Do and go wherever he wishes.
“Depends on if I win.”
I wave him off. “You’re going to win.”
He scratches his neck, shrugging. “I’ve never taken a real vacation.”
My jaw drops, not believing it. “What? Really?”
