my feet out of the bed, both because I really should get up, and because I am hoping that physical motion might just push the random thoughts from my head. Because the truth is that Malcolm is the kind of man for whom I just might break my own rules. But letting go and getting close and trusting him to protect my heart is a hard journey for me, and I can’t think about it too much or else I’ll just end up scaring myself right out of the possibility.
I want him, it’s as simple as that. And as complicated. Because what if I agree to try and make it work between us, but then I end up closing myself off? We’ll lose this magical, joyous connection between us.
But how can I just keep him as a friend when it’s clear we both want so much more?
I hear rattling from the kitchen and the sound is like an invitation to spill my problems to Brayden. And not just my problems, but to finally tell him the truth about me and relationships. I’ll lay it all out for him, and then I’ll let Doctor Kline diagnose my love life and help me decide on the right treatment.
And if that doesn’t work, at least I’ll have had my fair share of the bacon.
I head toward the kitchen in bare feet wearing only my sleep shirt. I can already smell the bacon, so I expect to find Brayden at the stove making either pancakes or scrambled eggs.
Instead, I find Malcolm—and my breath catches in my throat.
He hasn’t yet noticed me yet, and I stand there, soaking up the sight of him. He’s casual in only jeans and a T-shirt, and I can’t help but appreciate the way his ass fills out those jeans and the way his shoulders complete the line of the shirt.
He moves with an efficient grace, and I lean against the wall and soak it all in, enjoying the way this feels. The two of us. A kitchen. Breakfast. It feels warm and nice and real, and I hug myself tight, as if it’s necessary to hold in this swell of happiness that is building inside me.
Then Mal breaks the spell with a heartfelt, “Well, fuck,” and I turn my attention to the counter where he has mangled an omelette in the process of plating it.
“I’m sure it still tastes good,” I say, trying not to laugh.
He turns to me, and despite the fact that he is obviously irritated by eggs and pans and plates and stoves, I see only pleasure in his face. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you, too. Where’s Brayden?”
“I traded privacy with you for Dagny’s phone number,” Mal says. “Worked like a charm.”
I laugh. “I bet it did,” I say, then nod toward the plate. “Is that for me?”
“I’d thought I might bring it to you in bed,” he says. “But I think we’ll be lucky if I manage to get something edible on the table.”
I laugh, then sit at the place he makes for me. “Are you having some?”
“I had a bagel on my way over. But I thought you deserved a nice breakfast. You’d think after so many years, I’d be better at this…”
He trails off with a shrug. “Anyway, hopefully it tastes better than it looks.”
It does, actually. It’s cheesy and cooked just enough, and when I tell him it’s perfect, I can’t help but melt a little at the look of soft appreciation on his face. I take another bite, and then stand up and go to where he’s leaning casually against the kitchen counter.
“Done?”
“Not even close,” I say. Because right then, it’s not breakfast that I want. I want to finish last night. I want to fulfill my dream. Maybe I’ll regret it, I don’t know. But I’m more certain that I’ll regret not having him. Right here. Right now.
“No?” I see amusement—and understanding—in his eyes.
“Listen,” I say. “About last night. I kind of bolted on you, and—” I clear my throat. “This time I won’t bolt.”
“Is that a fact?”
I nod. And I’m about to say something when he speaks first, his words shocking me to silence. “Take off your nightshirt.”
“What?” I look at him, leaning against the stone countertop,
I want him, it’s as simple as that. And as complicated. Because what if I agree to try and make it work between us, but then I end up closing myself off? We’ll lose this magical, joyous connection between us.
But how can I just keep him as a friend when it’s clear we both want so much more?
I hear rattling from the kitchen and the sound is like an invitation to spill my problems to Brayden. And not just my problems, but to finally tell him the truth about me and relationships. I’ll lay it all out for him, and then I’ll let Doctor Kline diagnose my love life and help me decide on the right treatment.
And if that doesn’t work, at least I’ll have had my fair share of the bacon.
I head toward the kitchen in bare feet wearing only my sleep shirt. I can already smell the bacon, so I expect to find Brayden at the stove making either pancakes or scrambled eggs.
Instead, I find Malcolm—and my breath catches in my throat.
He hasn’t yet noticed me yet, and I stand there, soaking up the sight of him. He’s casual in only jeans and a T-shirt, and I can’t help but appreciate the way his ass fills out those jeans and the way his shoulders complete the line of the shirt.
He moves with an efficient grace, and I lean against the wall and soak it all in, enjoying the way this feels. The two of us. A kitchen. Breakfast. It feels warm and nice and real, and I hug myself tight, as if it’s necessary to hold in this swell of happiness that is building inside me.
Then Mal breaks the spell with a heartfelt, “Well, fuck,” and I turn my attention to the counter where he has mangled an omelette in the process of plating it.
“I’m sure it still tastes good,” I say, trying not to laugh.
He turns to me, and despite the fact that he is obviously irritated by eggs and pans and plates and stoves, I see only pleasure in his face. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you, too. Where’s Brayden?”
“I traded privacy with you for Dagny’s phone number,” Mal says. “Worked like a charm.”
I laugh. “I bet it did,” I say, then nod toward the plate. “Is that for me?”
“I’d thought I might bring it to you in bed,” he says. “But I think we’ll be lucky if I manage to get something edible on the table.”
I laugh, then sit at the place he makes for me. “Are you having some?”
“I had a bagel on my way over. But I thought you deserved a nice breakfast. You’d think after so many years, I’d be better at this…”
He trails off with a shrug. “Anyway, hopefully it tastes better than it looks.”
It does, actually. It’s cheesy and cooked just enough, and when I tell him it’s perfect, I can’t help but melt a little at the look of soft appreciation on his face. I take another bite, and then stand up and go to where he’s leaning casually against the kitchen counter.
“Done?”
“Not even close,” I say. Because right then, it’s not breakfast that I want. I want to finish last night. I want to fulfill my dream. Maybe I’ll regret it, I don’t know. But I’m more certain that I’ll regret not having him. Right here. Right now.
“No?” I see amusement—and understanding—in his eyes.
“Listen,” I say. “About last night. I kind of bolted on you, and—” I clear my throat. “This time I won’t bolt.”
“Is that a fact?”
I nod. And I’m about to say something when he speaks first, his words shocking me to silence. “Take off your nightshirt.”
“What?” I look at him, leaning against the stone countertop,
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