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“Okay.”
“By the way, I overheard Noëlle’s sister mention the other day that she saw you at that big grocery store outside of town. She said your cart looked like you were shopping for a family of six. Have you got guests, or are you predicting a big snowstorm?”
I stop halfway to gathering my things. “Um, no. I was…just grabbing a few things for Thanksgiving. You know, before the stores run out.”
He gives me a pointed stare that tells me he believes exactly zero of my bullshit, which I can’t blame him for. It’s a stupid excuse when everyone knows my parents’ kitchen is where Thanksgiving is at when you’re a Hall.
I slide my laptop into my bag with the folders, tablet, and vendor binder I really should have taken home last night, and I leave before he asks more questions.
The walk to my apartment takes less than ten minutes, but my cheeks feel frozen solid from the cold by the time I reach my building.
When I open the door to my apartment, Fox is on the couch, bass across his lap, mid-note. He looks up, and all of a sudden, I feel like I made the biggest mistake leaving work early, but also the best decision ever because Fox’s smile when he sees me is everything. Right before he frowns.
“Finn.” He sets the bass down immediately. “You okay? Is everything—”
“Everything’s fine.”
“You’re home.” He looks at the oven clock, which he fixed for me a few days ago and now displays the correct time. “But it’s…just past noon.”
“I noticed.”
“Are you—”
I drop my bag inside the door, kick it closed behind me, and cross the room. Fox is standing by the time I reach him, but I don’t stop until I’m pressed against him, both hands on his face, kissing him.
He makes a soft sound of surprise into my mouth. Then his arms come around me, and he’s kissing me back like he’s been waiting for this since I walked out this morning.
I back him up against the wall by the bedroom door.
“You,” he breathes when I pull back for a second, “left work.”
“I did.”
“To come home.”
“Yes.”
“I’m just clarifying—”
“Shut up.”
I kiss him again. His hands slide down my back, finding my hips through my coat, and then move to the front until his fingers are undoing the buttons. He pushes it open and then off my shoulders entirely. My sweater goes next. His hands are under my shirt, warm against my sides, holding tight, and I release a sound I don’t usually make at this time on a working day.
“How long do you have?” he asks against my throat.
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Find a way.”
“I don’t have another meeting until three.”
“Three hours.”
“But I’m working from home this afternoon.”
He kisses my jaw. My throat. The spot beneath my ear that makes my knees wobble.
He gets the button on my slacks open and my zipper down without breaking rhythm. All of a sudden, I find myself with my back against the wall and his hand inside my briefs.
