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Why can’t I say no to him?
He sits taller when I join him, before annihilating his pastrami on rye, buttered on one side, mustard on the other, just as he likes it. I stare at my bagel and cream cheese, my appetite suddenly gone.
What are we even doing? I’m constantly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and for him to be gone one morning. The label might revoke their generosity at any moment, and then what do we do?
“Not hungry?”
“Huh?” His plate is empty as he nods at my untouched one. “Oh. I had a late breakfast.”
“What did you have?”
“Granola bar.”
“That isn’t a meal.”
“I didn’t have time.”
His gaze hardens. “Make the time. I’m not the only one who needs to look after themselves.”
“And I suppose you were eating nutritious meals during your tour?” I volley.
He purses his lips. Exactly.
If only to make a point, I take a mammoth, unladylike bite of my bagel. “Happy?” I ask through my mouthful of everything seasoning.
“Delighted.” Tate’s lips curl over his teeth, shoulders vibrating.
“What?”
He taps my chin. “You got a little something here.”
I reach for a napkin, but before I can wipe away the mess, he grabs my wrist. “Let me.” I’m clearly touch-starved, or I’d stop him as he swipes his thumb through the cream cheese, grazing my bottom lip, before popping the digit into his mouth. “You were always such a messy girl.”
My blood heats at his suggestive tone. This needs to stop, or I’ll do something I’ll regret.
“Strike two,” he murmurs, plucking the words straight from my head, because my mouth has stopped working. “Yeah, I know. I accept the consequences.”
Tate’s pupils dilate, his breathing quickens. Would he kiss away the mess? Lick my lips clean before trailing his hot mouth down my neck and nibbling across my chest.
“Tate.” It’s supposed to come out as a warning, but it’s more of a breathy whisper. This is why being near him is a huge risk. My mind is torn, but my body isn’t. It remembers Tate—it yearns for him. I lean in, gravitating toward him with muscle memory.
“This counts as date number three, if you were wondering.” I wasn’t. I was wondering how far I’m going to let this go when his thumb skims my jaw, eyes following the movement. “Fuck, I’ve missed you, Tally Girl.”
The doorbell rings.
Neither of us moves at first, two tortured statues, trapped in the moment.
“I should answer that.”
A deep noise of dissatisfaction rumbles up his throat. “Should you?”
Only when I go to move do I notice our tangled legs, like twisting vines. A year ago, it would’ve taken great force to sever our connection. Now I slip away with ease, heart in my throat, stomach in knots.
I scurry toward the front door, not daring to look back and meet his searing gaze.
Oh god. I was about to kiss my husband.
Horrified at my weakness, I fling the door open without checking through the side window first.
