AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’m not sure I have enough coffee to share.”
He laughs. I don’t. My heart thumps so hard inside my ribs, like a marimba player in a jazz group.
I knew tonight was the night.
I didn’t realize tomorrow morning was in the mix, too.
But of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? This isn’t just sex. It never was. Will isn’t here for a booty call. We aren’t exploring dating.
What we’re testing is the long haul.
The long game.
“I don’t generally let guys stay and use up my coffee.”
“Is that a euphemism for some freaky position in bed? ‘Use up my coffee’?”
“No.”
“Your coffee is that good?”
“I guess you’ll have to spend the night to find out.”
“I don’t want a cup of pity coffee, Mallory.”
The song changes from an energetic Lindsey Stirling violin ballad to Stephen Swartz’s “Hello.” The beat takes over, new ukulele sound plucking my past emotions and forming a duet with the very intense present as Will kisses me, slow and deep, our hips meeting in a sway that bends time itself.
Breaking the kiss, he whispers, “Am I coffee-worthy?”
“You’re everything-worthy.”
“That’s my line, Mal. You’re stealing all my good lines.”
“Then make me stop talking.”
“How do I do that?”
“I’m pretty sure you have a few clever ideas. You were salutatorian, after all. Rhodes Scholar. You’re kinda smart.”
“So I’ve been told.” The smile he gives me–serene, excited, full of promise–intensifies with passion as we hold each other’s gaze.
I smell it before I can put words to it. “DINNER IS BURNING!” I scream, fleeing to the stove, where the onions have gone half black and the red pepper strips look like blood on tar.
“It’s charbroiled,” Will announces, chin on my shoulder as I use the spatula to scrape up what I can and evenly distribute the vegetables.
“You’re diplomatic.”
“I would never insult another vegetable. They’re my people. Purple eggplant, red pepper–we stick together.”
An elbow to his gut is my response.
He laughs, moving gracefully across my kitchen to find a bottle of white wine in the fridge. It’s already open, stopper in place. Without asking, he looks through my cabinets, finds two wine glasses, and asks, “Wine?”
“Perfect.”
Part of the appeal of gas stoves comes in being able to regulate the heat visually, the distribution easier to calibrate when you can see it. Will’s body is the same way. Our fingers brush as he hands me the wine, the stir fry saved by my quick movements, the marinated chicken ready to add in a moment.
Steam rises from the rice cooker on the counter behind Will, the aroma of butter and saffron making me smile.
