Page 37 of Less

It was my crafting phase.

I got one of those Cricut printers—used and at a great discount.

And yeah, I made us shirts.

Huge rainbow.

Giant pot of gold.

The most ridiculous tourist shirts in the entire bar.

“We thought we were hilarious,” he says.

“We were drunk,” I correct.

He chuckles.

“And you insisted we sing Irish songs in the street.”

“That was your idea!”

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

The hallway fills with our quiet laughter.

His arms squeeze around me, and I tighten my grip on his shoulders.

For a moment—just a moment—it feels like those three lost years never happened.

Like we’re back in my little apartment in Queens.

Back when things were easy.

Back before he broke my heart.

Less reaches the suite door and shifts me slightly so he can open it.

He carries me inside without setting me down.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “You can put me down now.”

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he walks straight toward the couch and lowers me gently onto the cushions.

Then he kneels on the floor, and his long hands skim down my legs, gripping my ankles briefly before he’s sliding my shoes off.

My feet sigh with relief the moment the heels come off.

Less stays there, right in front of me. He places the shoes beside the table without breaking eye contact.

“Better?” he asks, and dear Lord, his fingers are busy, rubbing my feet.

I nod.

“Much.”