Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
After watching a quick YouTube video showing us how to “crimp the crust together,” we each start at opposite sides and work our way around the dish until we have what can only be described as a train wreck, but it’s our train wreck.
He lifts a palm, and I smack it in a high-five, the gesture sending flour everywhere, which I’d have thought would upset his tidy little world, but instead of seeming annoyed, he lowers his head and kisses me.
I kiss him back, sighing a little at the realization that the sheer pleasure of something as simple as kissing this man hasn’t abated even though we keep doing it, even though we’re doing it on a random Tuesday at home, instead of confining it to a sexy “what happens in Vermont stays in Vermont” weekend as planned.
Thomas pulls back. “Did you preheat the oven?”
I think back. Shoot. “I meant to. Does that count?”
He smiles, and after checking the recipe, pushes some buttons on the oven to turn it on.
“Now we have to wait for it to come up to temp and bake? That’ll take forever,” I say with a touch of whining.
“It’s just as well.” He checks his watch. “You can’t have pie for dinner.”
“Says who?”
He opens his mouth. “Fair point. But I know I for one would like some actual dinner first. Especially since we don’t know how that will turn out.”
He points skeptically at our pie, which, I’ll admit, looks absolutely nothing like the picture.
“Alright,” I sigh. “I’ll get out of your hair and let you be an adult, but don’t you dare eat all the pie. You leave my half with your doorman for me to pick up tomorrow after work, or else.”
I draw a line across my throat before finishing the last bit of wine and reaching for my work bag on the floor beside his dining table.
“Wait.” Thomas reaches out and grabs my hand. “Stay.”
I give him a look. “For dinner? I can’t.”
“Why not?”
My look is even more pointed this time. “You know why I can’t.”
“Explain it to me in your weird Mac words.”
“It’s too coupley.”
“And baking a pie together isn’t?”
“That was different. Practical,” I say, trying to ignore how stupid my argument sounds. “We had to use up the apples.”
He reaches out a hand and touches my blue streak, something I notice he does often, though not, as I first thought, as a way of reminding himself how ill-suited we are. It feels almost affectionate, as though he’s relishing the fact that I let him do it instead of batting his hand away.
And then, to remind myself who I am, and what I’m not, I bat his hand away.
But the damn man only smiles, knowingly. “Look. We’ve tried things your way. We put up the walls, we put up the time limits, we set all sorts of boundaries. It didn’t work.”
“Don’t even think about suggesting we try things your way,” I say, eyes wide with panic. “Just because I make one pie with you—”
“I was going to suggest a compromise,” he interrupts. “We keep doing whatever this is. Hanging out if we feel like it. Having sex if we feel like it. Even staying over if we feel like it.”
My heart clenches in panic. “That sounds an awful lot like your way.” An awful lot like a relationship.
“I’m not done.” He steps closer and slides his arms around my waist, casually. “I was going to add that we do this just for as long as it suits us. Because I like spending time with you, perhaps against my better judgment, and you like spending time with me.”
“I—”
He kisses me, slow and tongue-twisting and promising.
“Fine,” I say, when he pulls back. “I like spending time with you a little.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners in an almost smile. “All I’m suggesting is that if it feels good, we should do it and I’m not just talking about the sex. I like apple picking with you. I even like pie-baking with you. And talking. And arguing. You can call it friends-with-benefits, or don’t call it anything at all, I don’t really care.”
“How is this not a boyfriend/girlfriend situation?” I ask skeptically.
He thinks this over. “Because if you want to walk away, at any point, you can. No breakup speech, no fear of hurting me, or pressure to stay longer than you want to in the name of commitment.”
“And we don’t have to be exclusive. We can sleep with other people?” I ask, a wild defensive swing if I’ve ever felt one.
His jaw tenses a little, and his nod is short. “Yes. If you want to sleep with someone else you should feel free to.”
He sucks in his cheeks slightly and meets my eyes. “Just like if I want to sleep with someone else, I won’t hesitate.”