Page 17 of Pumpkin to Talk About

Annie: Guess who didn’t come home last night.

Lindsey: Your deadbeat husband?

Annie: Bitch. I kicked him out weeks ago. Mikey has been with me helping out.

Lisa: Glad to see you didn’t let him crawl back again.

Erica: Leave Annie alone. We’re proud of you, Anna Banana.

Annie: You’re missing the point. Mikey didn’t come back from his date last night.

Lisa: Mikey had a date???

Annie: Yup. With that Allen girl.

Lisa: Belle???

Lindsey: She’s still in the Flats? I thought for sure she’d get out by now.

Annie: It’s not so bad here. Which you would know if you ever came back to visit.

Leave it to Annie to kill the group chat with a guilt trip. It finally goes quiet, and for a minute, I dare to hope that might be the end of it.

No such luck.

Annie: Mikey, are you alive or what?

Erica: We can see he’s read the messages.

Annie: All the more reason to demand a response. He knows what he’s done. He’s leaving that poor girl in a week, and she’s had a thing for him since high school.

And that’s about where I have to chime in.

Mike: She has not had a thing for me since high school. We kissed once.

Lisa: You did???

Lindsey: How did we not know.

Erica: You had both left for college. From what I heard, it wasn’t that big of a deal.

Annie: Agree to disagree.

Mike: In case you need a reminder, I’m forty years old. So is she. We are consenting adults. And that is all I am willing to say on the matter.

Again, there’s a pause, and I think that must have actually worked. Maybe they respect my adult decision-making.

Erica: You’re forty-one…

I grumble and shut my phone off. That’s enough of that.

“A girl could get used to you hanging out in my kitchen in your boxers, making me lattes.” Belle’s voice comes from behind me, low and husky from just waking up. I turn around to see her in my flannel shirt from last night and not much else. The hem of it barely covers the curve of her ass, and I grow hard just looking at her gorgeous, bare thighs. I can’t help but remember how they were wrapped around my hips last night.

I hand her one of the mugs, letting my fingers linger on hers. “A guy could get used to being here and making you lattes.” It’s out of my mouth before I can think about it. We stare at each other for a minute, both with our hands still on the mug, because we both know we can’t get used to it. I’m leaving at the end of the week.

She takes the latte from me and sips it. Her eyes roll back in her head, and she moans. “Oh my god. This is so good. When the hell did you learn to make coffee like this? I haven’t used that machine once yet because I can’t figure it out.”

“My buddy’s family owns a coffee shop up in Indiana. Well, it’s his now. I worked there off and on over the years.”