Page 52

“That still counts.”

That still gets me sometimes, how quickly he learns. Friday night he was working to get my name out of his mouth. Four days later he can identify canned fruit and argue with me about where strawberry jam belongs in the fridge.

I get out a small baking dish and open the can. Kell watches while I arrange the peach halves cut side up and spoon some of the syrup around them, then I take the marshmallows from the cupboard.

He looks from the bag to the peaches. “What are those?”

“Marshmallows.”

He takes one from the bag, sniffs it, and turns it between his fingers. “Sweet?”

“Very.”

“And you put them on peaches?”

“Yes. Because I seem to be making questionable decisions in several categories tonight.”

He smiles immediately. I point the spoon at him. “Not a word.”

“I did not say one.”

“You were going to.”

“I was thinking several.”

“That counts.”

“It does not.”

I put the dish into the oven before he can win an argument I’m not prepared to have. The peaches need only enough time to heat through and soften the marshmallows, which gives me approximately fifteen minutes to regain whatever good judgment I possessed before Kell learned how to kiss like Casanova.

I lean back against the counter while he takes the opposite one. The distance helps. A little.

He’s still shirtless. There’s a narrow streak of orange on the side of one hand. Fresh green curls through the brown and gold willow there, brighter than it was when I came home, and my body remembers exactly what his felt like against mine.

I fold my arms.

Kell smiles. “You’re thinking again.”

“I’m allowed.”

“And not telling me.”

I stare at him.

His smile widens.

He seems delighted by this.

The oven clicks softly as it heats. I should ask him about the painting. Or his day. Or whether he wants coffee. Anything ordinary enough to put a few more feet between what just happened and whatever happens next.

Instead, I think about Friday night and what I actually did. My hands tighten where they’re tucked against my arms. Kell is right across from me, his jeans riding low on hips that didn’t exist four days ago, while my kitchen still contains the ordinary remains of a life that existed long before him.

Then Kell. Not a man I met. Not someone who chose Hollis Springs, got a job, went on an app, and happened to match with me. I called him into being, and I can’t allow myself to forget that his life began with a wish I made. Kissing him turns that responsibility into something much more complicated.

He’s a grown man. Nothing about what happened in the dining room felt remotely like kissing someone who wasn’t a fully functioning adult. His wants are his own. His opinions are certainly his own. I have four days of open cabinets and arguments about jam to prove that.

But four days is still only four days. He lives in my house because he arrived with nowhere else to live. I bought the jeans he’s wearing. I bought the paints spread across my dining room table. His phone used to belong to my husband. The only people he knows are people I introduced to him.