“You bet your ass there will be. As I was saying—the next time will be in my bed.”
My heart drops in excitement and his smirk confirms he knows that. He picks up my discarded sweatpants and looks at them before deciding against me putting them back on and takes my hands, pulling me up to a sitting position and placing a throw blanket over my exposed body.
“I hope you know that I didn't come over for this.” He repeats and points between the two of us as he sits back down.
“I know,” I respond and push his hair off his forehead, “but I’m not upset at the way it went.”
He snorts and leans forward, pressing a kiss on the tip of my nose, and stands back up. “Me either. Come over tomorrow morning, and we’ll have a late breakfast and then head to the course together.”
“Okay,” I say rather bashfully for someone who just got their brain scrambled and follow him to the front door.
“Thank you for letting me listen to you play.”
“You’re welcome,” I tell him, leaning on the door frame.
With the door wide open and in direct view of the Rawlins home, I’m slightly nervous that someone over there will see us. But who would they tell?
Brandon leans forward and kisses me on the top of my head, then turns around and bounds down the steps toward his car. I watch him with a look of awe until he’s out of sight. With a sigh, I close the front door and look around the front room—wondering if the last hour really happened. I move into the room and refold the blanket, grab my sweats, snag my phone off the floor, and head upstairs for the night.
I think and think over and over until I fall into a restless sleep.
13
BRANDON
Ihover my hand over the stovetop to see if it’s hot enough, and the heat indicates that it’s ready for the turkey bacon. The sizzling from the bacon hits my ears like a welcomed, morning soundtrack, and as I’m rinsing off my hands, the doorbell chiming signals Angie is here. Snagging the rag off the holder, I dry my hands off while I hop down the stairs to the door and sling the rag over my shoulder, opening up the door to see my girl.
“Hi,” I greet and tighten my hold on the doorknob. I worried that after last night and me leaving so abruptly, there would be a heavy air of awkwardness around us. It’s easier to bare yourself when the lights are off, but when the lights are on—that’s another story. But maybe it’s because Angie is better at hiding her feelings than I am. I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying every second from the moment I pulled up to her house last night to when I left. The feel of her, the taste of her… I couldn’t stop thinking about her, and I selfishly wondered when we could be together like that again.
“Hi,” she returns my greeting as her eyes trail over meand I watch a small smile form on her lips. She’s in a long black skirt with a slit on the left leg that exposes her thigh, a white baby doll tee that reads “give me your keys” over top of a piano, and her signature Doc Martens. Her bag, which I’m guessing has her golf clothes tucked inside, is slung over her shoulder.
Shaking my head, I open the door wider. “Come in.”
I’m suddenly nervous about her seeing my space. I don’t want it to seem like I flaunt my money. But to be honest, this place was a dump when I bought it almost four years ago and I’m still not finished with the projects. So to see the progress through her eyes, it’s like seeing for the first time.
“Thanks,” Angie says as she passes through and follows me back up the stairs and I watch as her eyes travel over my space and out toward the view. “Wow. This is beautiful."
I come to stand next to her and look at the home I’ve been living in for the last few years. My townhouse is big by Philadelphia standards with clean lines and a view that looks out toward the Benjamin-Franklin bridge. When I got the keys all those years ago, I knew this place had potential. “Thank you. I’m still working on it, but it works for me.”
“I’ll bet. How long have you lived here?”
“A few years, but I’ve had trouble narrowing down what I want,” I tell her and move back toward the kitchen to flip the bacon. “I hope you like turkey bacon.”
She nods and I see a soft smile lift her cheeks. I leave Angie to snoop while I focus on cooking our breakfast. Growing up as the oldest of five, I learned to cook very early-on. It was needed when your mom was caring for a newborn and your dad was at work all the time. When I went to college, I got a small reprieve, but once I moved back and then out on my own, I realized just how grateful I was to myparents—my mom especially—for teaching me to fend for myself.
“It smells good in here,” Angie tells me as she comes to stand near me.
“Thanks. I hope you like pancakes—they’re gluten-free.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
I scoop out some of the mixed batter and turn to face her. “I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. I also couldn’t sleep last night, so I went on a deep-dive of those with gluten intolerances—and I know you said you’re not, but I thought maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea for me to try out being gluten-free.”
“You would go gluten-free for me?” she asks quietly.
I divert my attention, flipping the pancake, and turn back to her. “There’s not much I wouldn’t do for you.” I don’t know why I said that. Sure, I don’t eat a lot of things that are gluten-based as it is. Or if I have, I’ve never paid attention. But just saying that has lit up Angie’s face. So I guess my decision to go gluten-free has been made. My Italian mother will riot when she finds out.
“The food,” she whispers after staring at each other following my confession.
