Page 60 of Peaches & Pistols

“Yea? What do you watch?” I ask, not wanting our casual conversation to die so soon.

Those round apple cheeks blush and her smile is brittle. “It’s nothing you’d like.”

“Try me.” I crack open my beer and kick my feet up on the coffee table.

Instead of telling me, she turns the TV on to a streaming service I didn’t know we had. It must be her account, and I’m proud as hell she’s comfortable enough here to put down even the tiniest root.

The title screen reads Single’s Inferno, and a cast of attractive people pose on a beach.

“The new season just dropped, and I’m hooked. I’ve binged the first three seasons. It’s addictive.” Her excitement is contagious.

I was going to watch whatever she chose regardless, but as she folds up her legs beneath her into a pretzel, and bounces on the cushion, sending her curls every which way, I’m sold.

“Let’s go.” I point my beer bottle at the TV. She’s unsure, but hits play anyway.

“Do you want the premise or to go in blind?”

What the hell kind of question is that? You have to prepare to watch a TV show?

“I’m along for the ride.”

“Wait, he gets to go to Paradise again with a different girl? He just went last with that influencer girl. What was wrong with her? I thought he liked her.” I wave my beer at the screen.

Mia’s moved to sit right next to me so we can discuss the show without waking up the kids. I won’t admit which one of us, but someone got a little loud during the first competition.

Our clothes brush with any slight movement. Does she realize how close she’s gotten?

“Just watch, it gets better,” she assures.

“Woooooah-oh-oh. Did you see him touch her hand on the table? The commentators are going nuts. He didn’t touch the other girl’s hand last night.” We’re three episodes in to the season. We could’ve been farther along if I didn’t pause it every five minutes to ask questions.

She pauses the episode with a sigh.

“Hey! They’re about to get in the pool!” I whine.

“It’s nearly midnight, did you want to watch the ball drop on TV? We can finish our episode tomorrow night…if you want.”

“Hell yes I do.” Anything to spend more time with this addictive woman.

“Okay.” That smile. Mia’s happiness is like the most powerful drug being pumped into my body by the gallon.

“I’d like to watch the ball drop, if it’s okay. I haven’t seen it in years,” she says.

“Queue it up,” I say, as she turns on a major broadcast channel.

From the corner of my eye, she raises her arm from her lap and tilts toward me and retreats back. Hoping to god she’s thinking what I’m thinking, I stretch my arm behind her, resting it on the back of the couch.

She wiggles a tad closer. It’s nearly midnight. This’ll take all night at this rate.

I wrap my arm around her shoulders and curl her into me. She’s stiff as a corpse but when I don’t press further, she rests her head on the space between my shoulder and pec and places her hand over my galloping heart.

This close to her, I can finally pinpoint the sweet scent I’ve come to know as her. Sweet peach swirls with the faintest florals. I inhale deeply to get my fill—I may never get the chance to hold her like this again.

Warm breath seeps through the thin cotton of my shirt when she asks, “Do you have any new year’s resolutions?”

I’m not a “resolution” kind of man. If I want something, I make it happen. If I have a goal, I don’t quit until I succeed.

“Naw. How about you?” My hand takes liberties it’s not been granted as my fingers rub back and forth against her shoulder, relaxing her into me further.