Page 70 of The Trouble with Flings

“Okay. I’ll back off.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, but just so you know,” I say more playfully, “according to this book, as your partner I need to let you know you’re not alone in this, so I’ll be texting you more often.”

She shakes her head with an unstoppable grin. “You’re going to be insufferable for the next six months, aren’t you?”

“Probably.” I pull her closer and kiss her.

The laundry spins, the pages turn, and before we know it, we’re moving clothes from the washers to the dryers. We take our seats again, and I read her passages of a parenting book as we share the lavender honey croissant, which is every bit as good as Paisley promised.

When the laundry’s done, Jennifer is on her feet in an instant, unloading a dryer and folding like she’s racing against time. I take my time, smoothing edges and aligning seams.

“Ugh. You’re one of those,” she groans.

“One of what?”

“A folding perfectionist.” She folds a pair of yoga pants into a rough square. “Just slap it together. No one’s judging the creases.”

I hold up a neatly folded T-shirt. “There’s a right way to do things, wild girl.”

She gives me an amused side-eye as she whips through folding two shirts. “Says the guy who determined that foot rubs are essential in a public laundromat.”

“I’m starting to understand your coffee name.” I abandon the laundry pile to step behind her, threading my arms around her waist. “Tell me what else is on your agenda today that requires you to do everything at breakneck speed?”

She leans back against me, her head resting on my chest. Her hair carries the faint scent of roses, and I tuck that away like I do everything about her.

“Nothing in particular,” she says softly.

“Then why rush through every aspect of your morning?”

She hesitates. “I don’t know. It’s just what I do.”

I turn her in my arms. “I have a theory.”

“You’ve been in my life for one morning, and you already have a theory? This ought to be good.”

“I’ve been in your life for months,” I correct her. “Starting with our summertime tryst on the island.”

“Yeah, yeah, go on,” she teases.

“I think you move fast because everyone around you does.” I nod toward the window, where a blur of strangers is hurrying past, oblivious to everything around them.

Her brows knit, but for once, she doesn’t argue. “Maybe you’re right.” She smirks again. “Do you want another gold star?”

“No. A kiss will do.” I lower my lips to hers, kissing her slowly and thoroughly, showing her there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here, making her knees buckle. Her fingers dig into my chest through my shirt, pulling me deeper into her. That’s it, baby, catch fire with me.

She comes away breathless.

“Now,” I whisper, tracing the curve of her cheek with my thumb, “don’t you think everything’s better when we slow down?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I think I need you to show me again.”

“Good girl,” I rasp as I lower my lips to hers. Only this time the kiss isn’t just about heat or hunger. It’s a promise of things to come, letting her know, without words, that I’m not just here for the baby or the books or the foot rubs I’ll insist on later.

I’m here for her.

Grocery shopping with Jennifer is an education.