Page 119 of The Trouble with Flings

“So, it’s serious, then?” Randi asks, her tone light but curious. “Between you and Fitz?”

I open my mouth, but the knee-jerk denial I expected is nowhere to be found. “You could say that,” I admit. “Unexpectedly so. He’s just…He’s a really great guy.”

“That’s your heart talking!” Jules exclaims. “When you know, you know.”

She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and I don’t have a single response, because she’s not wrong, but I’m not ready to say that out loud.

“I know all about unexpected affection,” Leni says. “I didn’t even like Raz when we met. I thought he was an arrogant actor.”

“He is an arrogant actor,” Keira says bluntly. “But he’s a lovable one.”

Everyone laughs, and the moment passes, and I breathe again.

As the night moves on, I notice Victory topping off Leni’s and Indi’s drinks without being asked and Keira, Tessa, and Randi arguing with the ease of lifelong friends who know they can do it without risking their friendship, while Cait and Jules clue me in to tidbits about their lives. Beyond my sisters, I can’t remember the last time I spent time with women like this. Women who make room without making it a thing, who ask real questions and then let you off the hook when you need it.

When the movie starts, projected onto a sheet strung between two trees, the picture is slightly crooked, but nobody cares. The air is cool and smells like woodsmoke and the last of the grill, the stars are smiling down on us the way they never do in the city, and we’re all bundled up in sweatshirts, sitting on blankets around the fire. I’m sitting between Fitz’s legs with my back against his chest.

His lips brush my ear as he murmurs, “Missed you.”

I smile into the dark. He says it every time we’re apart, and I know now that he means it.

His arms tighten around me as he kisses my cheek. I tip my head up to the side so I can see his face and whisper, “I missed you, too, but don’t let it go to your head.”

He just laughs and kisses me again.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Fitz

On Sunday morning, I roll over, reaching for Jennifer, but my hand lands on an empty sheet. I blink awake, disoriented by her absence. Sunlight dapples the empty side of the bed, warming sheets that should still have her tangled in them.

I glance at the bathroom, but the door is open and it’s empty. I lie there listening for her, thinking about last night. Brant’s barbecue was the perfect way for Jennifer to get to know more of my friends. I was glad she finally met Wells and Victory. She has yet to meet Bellamy, but she’ll meet her at the Easter egg hunt.

Jennifer was her sexy, snarky self, and everyone loved her. At one point I was standing by the grill with the guys, and the girls laughed so hard, they all had tears streaming down their cheeks, even Jennifer. They were probably telling her a story about me, but what a sight it was to see her so at ease. Before we left, Keira declared that Jennifer belonged there, but I was an optional guest.

On the heels of that happy thought comes a sharper one. After meeting my parents and shopping for nursery furniture, was spending the evening with friends and family too much for her? Our assumed future was threaded into every conversation, whether we acknowledged it outright or not. Jennifer said she had a great time, but perfect nights and deep conversations are exactly the kinds of things that send that beautiful mind of hers into a tailspin.

Did she wake up overwhelmed and slip out before I could see the doubt in her eyes? A flicker of unease sparks in my chest.

No. Jennifer isn’t a runner. Not this deep in. She might overthink herself into a panic, but she’d tell me to my face, with her chin held high and those gorgeous eyes blazing as she rattled off every reason she’s convinced herself we’re a mistake.

I sit up, rubbing my chest like I can ease the sudden tightness. The hardwood is cool beneath my bare feet as I head over to the closet to see if her suitcase is still there. A quick glimpse of her suitcase unravels that tension so fast, it almost pisses me off.

I scrub my hand over my face and huff out a low half laugh. Since when do I jump to the worst-case scenario? I don’t have to look far for the answer. Since I care more about the woman I don’t want to lose than I do about damn near anything else. I pull on a pair of sweats, wondering where she might be. In the kitchen? She doesn’t cook. On the deck, cozied up in one of my sweatshirts, watching the tide roll in?

The idea of Jennifer feeling comfortable enough to wander around my house hits me with ridiculous force. I like that idea. A lot.

The smell of coffee and something burnt hits me halfway down the stairs, followed by the sound of Jennifer singing, slightly off-key. I come off the stairs and stop in my tracks in the middle of the living room.

Jennifer is standing barefoot in my kitchen wearing nothing but my T-shirt that she slept in, the hem barely covering her ass as she sways her hips to the music streaming from her phone. Her hair is a mass of tangles, and she’s studying something on her phone, which is propped against the coffee maker, while she mixes something in a big bowl with far more enthusiasm than technique.

Jesus. I could get used to this way too fast.

Too fast for her, that is.

The kitchen is a disaster zone. There’s flour everywhere. Loose blueberries and chocolate chips are scattered on the counter, along with measuring cups, bowls, a carton of milk. A bag of brown sugar that looks like she wrestled it open is lying on its side, its contents spilling out. Cabinet doors hang open, and sitting on the stove is a tray of burnt-to-a-crisp muffins still smoking.

And somehow, all of it feels perfect.