Page 45 of Hearts on the Mend

Hell, not even next month.

But I just had to kiss him on the beach. I made the mistake of not listening to all the alarm bells that went off and threw caution aside and took what I wanted. Like the first night I slept with him.

The constant push and pull between us is making me crazy.

Maybe this was never going to be easy, having Nolan living here as he worked on the house. But I thought I had protected myself by insisting we use separate spaces.

That was before I stress-baked in the kitchen, not far from his bedroom where he sits and reads each night. And because Nolan Murphy is practically a Boy Scout waving every green flag known to womankind, he listens to my rules.

Respects me.

Fuck, I wish I could just have his mouth on mine again. Can he ruin me… respectfully? I’d love for him to push me up against the wall and make me forget my name, but that would just open another can of worms.

“Bad night,” he repeats. “Want to go watch some shitty TV?”

“What?”

“Put on a show. You don’t have to talk. I’ll just sit with you.”

I blink as the timer goes off, my brain and body both frozen. Sit with me. He wants to…

I remove the brookies from the oven, then grab a quart of Irish coffee ice cream from the freezer.

“Want some?” My voice cracks.

“Sure.” He leans over the gate across his bedroom door to scratch the kitten behind the ears. It meows, and he picks it up. The furball nuzzles into his chest, satisfied.

“Thought you didn’t like the kitten.” I scoop ice cream into two bowls, then top each with a warm, gooey square of brookie.

“Didn’t want it crying.”

“It was sleeping fine a few minutes ago.”

He grumbles, leaning back in to set it down. “Go back to sleep, you furball.”

I hand him his bowl before heading to the living room, fully aware of his eyes burning into my back. Maybe because I’m still annoyed, I sway my hips harder from side to side. I pretend not to hear him choking on his bite of ice cream, smiling to myself smugly.

We plop down on opposite ends of the couch. It’s stiff, narrow, and brown and orange, like a lot of this house. An artifact of the sixties. It’s scratchy and only nominally more comfortable than the plastic-covered velvet seat.

“Christ, Cass,” he says around a mouthful. “This is better than the shit they sell at The Wharf House.”

“It’s just brownies and cookies smashed together.”

“Don’t undersell yourself.”

I roll my eyes before mindlessly flipping through the TV channels, not sure of what to watch. I almost never have time to watch TV beyond Frozen or Bluey. I scoop ice cream into my mouth, sighing as it melts and sinks down my throat. Tell me a better way to decompress after a hard day.

“Can I?” he asks.

“Can you what?”

Nolan points to my feet stretched out beside him.

“Can you…” My brain short-circuits.

“Want a foot rub?”

“Is that a kink of yours?” I try for funny, but his mouth settles into a firm line.