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"Sometime, yeah," I whisper back, feeling his face nestle against my neck, his lips gently nibbling my skin. The reality of Tommy and me, naked together in the shower, touching, is still so surreal. I keep repeating it in my mind, trying to convince myself this is all actually happening. I spin and press our wet bodies together, his lips tracing over my collarbone.
"Tommy?" I breathe out.
"Yes, babe?" Hearing the small term of endearment puts a broad smile on my face. It’s happening so often that my cheeks are starting to hurt.
"Can we go to bed?"
Without a word, he reaches over, turns off the water, and grabs two towels off the rack. He wraps one around me with a gentle motion before securing another around his own waist.
We leave the soaked blanket on the bathroom floor—the poor filthy thing has certainly been through the wringer tonight—and head back to the bedroom. Tommy fetches a spare quilt from the closet, tossing it over the bed, while I quickly change into the pajamas his mom provided. He pulls on some thin shorts from the dresser.
As we lie down, I face him, one hand tucked under my head. His eyes are already closed, droplets of water from his wet hair occasionally dripping onto his stitches. I pick up the towel from the floor and gently dab at them.
"Thanks, babe," he murmurs, his voice completely drained. "Tomorrow…" his voice trails off.
Just when I think he's going to finish his thought, I hear a soft snore. "Tomorrow, what?" I ask, shaking him a bit.
A tiny grin twitches at the corner of his lips but he doesn't answer. For some reason, I know he was about to say something about my family. But the moment is too perfect to press into that particular issue.
I kiss his cheek softly. "I love you, Tommy."
"Love you too, Matilda." He chuckles at my full name, so I pinch his arm in playful reprimand. He frowns, eyes still shut, and rubs the spot, but I just cuddle closer to him, gripping his hand and intertwining our fingers.
Watching him, I notice his breathing even out into the steady rhythm of sleep. Only then, assured he's peacefully asleep, do I allow my own eyes to close, content in the quiet and warmth between us.
Chapter twenty-one
Tilly
Iwake the next morning very early. The sun is just barely peeking over the snow-covered mountains outside the windows. The view is gorgeous, and I can truly appreciate the majesty of mountain living—so long as we’re inside away from the cold. Not a snow bunny. Not now. Not ever. Tommy is still snoring, his face frozen in a peaceful, satisfied expression. I kiss his nose and sneak out of bed.
After his performance last night, there’s no way I’m interrupting his sleep.
My first stop is the bathroom. After relieving myself, I gather up the blanket we left on the floor, then the towels from the bedroom, and go looking for the laundry room.
I find it connected to the garage and start the load. Just as I come back out, Henrietta emerges from her bedroom.
“Oh, good morning, baby. How’d you sleep?” Henrietta asks, going straight to the coffee pot.
“Like a dream,” I say, trying not to picture naked Tommy from the night before.
“I’ll bet. I thought someone was breaking in. Maybe next time, shut the door? Tends to muffle things.”
Oh. My. God.
Is my face melting off? I literally touch it and feel the heat on my cheeks. She heard us? Just kill me now. But Henrietta doesn't seem to be the least bit upset about it. She's at the coffee machine, watching it drip into the waiting pot while humming a happy tune.
“Ma!” Tommy has come out of the hall, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Henrietta is waving him off, not in the least bit concerned that her son was having sex with me. “Oh, please. Passion makes us human. Don’t apologize for that. What would you two like for breakfast?”
I’m still fighting the blush from her blunt comment about our ‘passion,’ but I clear my throat. “I actually thought we could cook for you.”
Henrietta crosses her arms, her eyes on me like I just told her I'm selling oceanfront property in Kansas for a steal. “And what will you make? Because I know my son is useless in the kitchen.”
The coffee pot beeps, and Tommy goes over to it. He fills three mugs and distributes them onto the giant island where we’re sitting. I really love this house. The kitchen is my favorite room so far, with the brilliant white countertops and modern stainless-steel appliances. It’s rich but also functional. The perfect kitchen. Or maybe it’s the second favorite because the bedroom where Tommy made me so deliciously sore last night is definitely top of the list. As he hands the mug to his mom, he kisses her cheek. “Tilly makes a mean French toast.”
“She’s cooked for you?” Henrietta tilts her head, a smile on her lips.
