“Ah! One more thing.”
A silent eyebrow rose.
“What is this to you?” I asked carefully. “I need to know now if you're wanting a friends-with-benefits thing or if this is you wanting . . . more.”
The words felt as heavy as my bumper plates. They were awkward in my mouth as if I couldn't force them past my teeth. But the last several months on that stupid dating app had taught me that people brought all kinds of ideas to relationships. For all I knew, Stella just wanted to kiss off some steam and resume where we'd been before, as friends.
For my sake, I sincerely hoped not, because I had a dark feeling I was halfway in love with her already.
Stella paused for a moment, and I could almost see her brain moving as she worked out what to say. Enough time to let me doubt what I'd said. Too fast, idiot, I told myself. One make-out session didn't a girlfriend make.
But maybe I wanted it to.
Because I was tired of them not sticking. Tired of trying again and again and again to find a spark. Now I had a raging inferno in my hands, and I wouldn't be able to settle for casual. There wasn't enough time in life to make me want that.
The same sort of silence had always come on our phone calls after I pitched her my crazy ideas, the ones she never stood behind. My heart hammered in my chest, but I didn't take the question back. Because we were grown adults and grown adults could figure this out.
“More.” She squeaked it out, cleared her throat, then said it again. “More. I want . . . I want more with you, Mark.”
“More.”
I repeated it almost breathlessly. She smiled and a hand came up to touch the side of my face. This all felt so fast. I woke up this morning worried about staring awkwardly at her while we lived under the same roof because I couldn't keep my eyes off her. Now I had permission to kiss her, to hold her, to . . . be with her.
My mind spun.
“Me too,” I finally said.
Her smile illuminated her face, brightening her already doe-like eyes, and I lost all my willpower. In one step, I had her crushed against me again, our lips connected, bodies pressed until I didn't know where she started and I ended.
This time, Stella pulled away a few years too soon. Her fingertips played with the hair at the edge of my neck, sending shivers down my back. Then she pressed her forehead to mine, closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
I pressed a kiss to her forehead and pulled her close with a shaky breath. She burrowed into my neck with a little sigh as I tightened my arms around her. As Lizbeth would say, sweet baby pineapple.
We were in big trouble now.
19 Stella
Mark left twenty minutes later.
The moment the door closed behind him, I let my head drop to the desk with a groan. Silence answered back, and I was grateful for it. The solitude gave me the chance to pull myself back together in the whirlwind that had become my life.
Joshua possibly here, possibly not.
A sort-of argument with Mark.
Dealing with hard truths from the past.
Kissing Mark.
And then again.
And again.
Another groan escaped me. Not that I regretted the kiss—no one could regret a kiss (or all twelve) like that—but what it meant. The force I'd put behind it. The abandon with which I'd thrown myself into his arms.
Deciding to let go of false beliefs from my past and be happy was one thing. Jumping into a pool of happy-kissing the next moment was another one entirely.
With that thought bright in my mind, I threw my hair in a high ponytail, changed into a comfortable pair of sweats, an old race t-shirt, and a jacket. I shoved aside the paperwork and my computer. Mark had faith that Seiko would help us iron out this idea, and we waited for official word from Lizbeth on licensing anyway. We needed to find our next booking, but I couldn't do that without him or more information.
So I would trust him.
Work could be stopped to do something else this time, which was, sadly, a difficult concept to wrap my mind around. But I did it anyway.
I needed a run but didn't have the guts to go on my own. My brain still felt like scattered butterflies. I wouldn't be paying attention the way I should in order to be safe from the overly-adventurous mountain lion. No new prints appeared this morning, thankfully, and no protest barking from Atticus in the night.
Instead, I set to work on this cabin. Mark wasn't a slob, but he wasn't tidy either. It needed a little . . . touch. Not too much. Not back to the sterility of my former apartment. But enough that it didn't feel messy. The work gave my mind space to unfold. To wrap around the tingly feeling that Mark's kiss had left behind. The way my lips still burned and the giddy fireworks thrilled in my stomach with each recollection.
I grabbed a laundry basket tucked near the back door, where a stacked washer and dryer stood in the wall. Then I walked around, plucking free his clothes, his socks, his jackets, and shoved them all inside. His random bits of paper went with it, as well as a weight lifting book and an old DVD case that didn't have a DVD in it. Then I shoved it under the desk where he could find it.
Once that was done, I finished with a few other warm touches. A blanket across the back of the couch. Magazines on top of the coffee table. My favorite coffee mug hung next to his over the sink. The sight of the two of them together gave me a moment of wry irony.
“This is going to be great,” I whispered, still hearing echoes
