“Thought you’d never ask,” he says.
I grab two glasses from the cabinet—the nice ones I never use—and he uncorks the wine with practiced ease, pouring us each a generous amount.
“To us,” he says, lifting his glass.
“To us,” I echo. “May we one day actually live together instead of you coming to visit me in this studio.”
His grin falters, and I lean forward, clinking my glass against his. “Relax, babe. I’m kidding.”
Kind of.
Art settles onto my couch, tugging me down beside him, and I curl into his side like I’ve done a hundred times before. His arm drapes over my shoulders, and just like earlier, I sink into the comfort of it.
“Open that,” I say, nodding toward the tiramisu.
He does, balancing the box on his knee, and hands me a plastic fork from the carryout.
“We’re sharing?” he asks.
“Obviously.” I scoop up a bite, the mascarpone melting on my tongue, and groan. “God, that’s good.”
“Yours is better.”
I beam up at him as I chew.
“Speaking of, how come you never told Lance I could cook?”
He looks at me like I’ve just asked if the earth is flat. “I avoid talking about you to Lance unless absolutely necessary.”
My stomach drops.
“Real nice.”
“Come on, you know it’s not like that. You two don’t get along, and I don’t want to fight with my best friend about my girlfriend or vice versa.”
His hand finds my thigh, squeezing gently. “I missed you.”
“You see me all the time at the tavern.”
“That’s not the same asthis. Being with you alone. Just…hanging out.”
I set my wineglass on the coffee table and shift so I’m facing him, my legs tucked beneath me. “Then maybe you should do it more often.”
“Yeah. Maybe I should.”
He kisses me again, deeper, and I get lost in it. He tastes like wine and sugar, and when he pulls me closer, I go willingly, my knees bracketing his hips. His hands find my waist, thumbs brushing the strip of bare skin where my shirt has ridden up, and heat pools low in my stomach.
“I love you.” He breathes the words into my mouth, and I swallow them down.
“I love you, too.”
And I mean it. At least, I think I do. Art’s the only man I’ve ever said those words to outside of my dad.
So why does something feel off?
“Art?”
“Hmm?”
