Page 56 of Wine & Dine

Sure. Of course. Wally. Something doesn’t settle well with me, but I meet him at his door when he gets home.

“You look terrible.” Actually, he looks hot as hell in his business suit of sharp blue with a crisp white shirt, and I want to undress him right here in the hallway.

“Thanks.” He chuckles, and then he winces. He presses two fingers on his temple.

“Poor baby,” I say, and his eyes leap to mine. He unlocks his place, and I call out for Wally. Garrett winces again.

“I’m just going to shower. I’ll leave the place unlocked so you can bring him in when he’s finished.” He steps into his condo, drops his keys on the counter, and continues down the hall to his bedroom.

Alrighty then.

Wally easily follows me, and we saunter down to the beach. It’s getting colder, and I consider what Denton asked. How’s my ocean? I stare out at the waves, crashing into each other. The seas are rough this evening. Just the concept of beach living is so opposite my mountaintop town. Denton isn’t really a wealth of information. I should have asked him about the diner, but I didn’t. I haven’t asked in a month, but something niggles at me. Hollilyn Abernathy, my sort-of manager, had her baby a week before Thanksgiving. I should have asked who was in charge, but I know why I didn’t. I don’t want to hear someone else is handling things better than me. Ignorance is bliss, they say. I can understand why sometimes.

If nothing else, I should call Hollilyn and congratulate her. During the week of Thanksgiving, I had my meltdown, and then Garrett and I celebrated the holiday. It wasn’t until the weekend when I learned Hollilyn had her baby, and her boyfriend-baby daddy proposed.

Death. Birth. Proposals. Life is everchanging, I think as I watch Wally chase a sea gull.

Who knew my life would bring me here?

How long will you stay? a voice inside my head whispers to me. It’s the one question Denton doesn’t ask. He keeps telling me to take all the time I need. I’ve taken enough time, though. I’m feeling the itch to do something again. If nothing else, I can’t spend my days waiting on Garrett to get home and entertain me.

I sigh as I call out for Wally, who surprisingly listens to me. He slows as he nears me and walks at my side while we take our time to return to Garrett’s.

When I enter his place, I decide I’ll make him dinner anyway. Simple chicken with seasoned rice. Something quick and easy. As I struggle with the pots and pans, Garrett enters his kitchen, scrubbing at the back of his neck.

“What the hell are you doing?” His eyes pinch as he speaks.

“I was going to make you dinner. Something you can reheat when you feel better.”

His eyes close a second, and he breathes deep. His tone is sharp when he says, “I don’t need food.” I stop what I’m doing, leave the pans where they sit on the counter, and turn for the door. I’m making him worse.

“Wait,” he snaps, and I stop short of exiting, my back to him. He’s suddenly behind me. Not touching me, but breathing me in with only a sliver of space between us. “I’m sorry.”

His arms wrap around me, and he tugs me against him. His nose dips into the juncture of my neck and shoulder.

“You don’t have to be sorry. I can see you’re in pain. I’ll just leave you be.”

“Don’t go,” he whispers, and something in his tone keeps me in place.

“You said you get these sometimes. What happened?” Concern fills my voice.

“Maybe it’s like a caffeine headache? You know when you don’t drink enough. It’s a sex-deprivation headache instead.” He chuckles, but then he winces against my skin.

“Would sex help you feel better?” I tease. He groans. There’s no way he could concentrate or perform with the pain I sense he’s in.

“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter.

“My dick you want to lick?” he teases, still speaking into my neck, and I laugh. At least he sounds more like him than he did last night at the door.

“Incredible,” I say.

“Insatiable, you mean.” We had sex seven times in forty-eight hours. Seven! That’s a week in two days. He can’t possibly feel deprived.

He walks us backward until he hits the edge of the couch.

“Stay with me,” he mutters, and I can’t deny him with the strain in his voice. I sit on his cushions, and he lies down with his head in my lap. He turns on the television with low volume, and I comb through his hair with my fingertips, rubbing gently over his scalp. After a few minutes, he shifts so his face presses into my stomach.

“The light’s bothering me,” he explains.

“I can turn it off.” I’m not really watching the movie anyway.

“No.” His voice sounds garbled as he presses his nose to my belly and then wraps an arm around my lower back. I continue to stroke over his head, watching him. His eyes close. His brows pinch. He’s so vulnerable in this position—anchoring himself to me—as if he’s afraid I might drift away.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” I say softly, leaning toward his ear.

“I like you calling me that,” he says, his voice sleepy as he snuggles into me, pressing tighter at my back.

“Sleep, baby.” Sweet dreams, Garrett. I hope they are filled with me.