Page 52 of Room for Us
“Yes, Zoey?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Fancy that. So am I.”
My peaceful commune with nature transitions to a deeper, darker awareness. Needs and wants of the flesh. I’m still human, after all, and I want this man.
“Was that an innuendo, Mr. Literary?”
His lips twitch. “Do you want it to be?”
I laugh, suddenly nervous. Wanting him in the dark is one thing, but in the daylight? He’s looking at me like he can hear my thoughts. Is it possible I’ve only known him days? It feels like years.
And no matter how I’d like to forget, he’s still my guest and I’m still his Innkeeper. Is this a massive mistake?
“Maybe, but who cares? Live while the livin’s good, I say,” whispers Aunt B.
I ignore her.
“Be honest, Ethan—is this weird? I mean, last night…” I trail off, my palms flying to my flushed cheeks. “Yep, this is weird.”
Ethan chuckles, leaning back on his hands. He watches me like a cat watches a bowl of milk. With intent to consume, potentially after pawing the surface a bit.
“I suppose if you decided it’s weird, then that’s what it’ll be. But we could also just enjoy this time together—take advantage, as it were.”
“What a novel concept,” I muse, only half teasing. “Two consenting adults doing what they want without backlash. You do know this is a very small town, right?”
He leans forward, mirth vanishing. “I hadn’t thought of how this would affect you in the long-term. Is the rumor mill that vicious here?”
“Eh.” I shrug, grinning. “From the perspective of a teenager, yes, and maybe to adults who give a shit. Which I don’t. Not anymore. Then again, I’d like to keep my business, so I wouldn’t broadcast it in the middle of Annie’s Pie Shoppe or anything.”
“Of course not.” He pantomimes a zipper closing his lips, which makes me laugh again.
“I actually am hungry. In my stomach.”
He jumps to his feet and offers me a hand. “Then allow me to remedy that.”
He pulls me to my feet. With a glance at the empty front yard, he squeezes my fingers and leads me into the house. I walk dazedly, senses overcome by the small miracle of holding hands with someone. Skin to skin. His hot palm to my cooler one.
He doesn’t release me until he opens the refrigerator.
“What are you hungry for?” he asks, peering at the visible shelves.
“What can you make?”
He scratches his cheek, frowning in thought, which is about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Then he favors me with a brilliant grin. “Peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”
I laugh. “PB&J it is.”
He makes two sandwiches and pours two glasses of milk, then sits beside me at the island. It’s possibly the simplest, most delicious meal I’ve eaten in my life. Is it because he made it for me?
Ethan touches my shoulder. “You seem far away all of a sudden. What are you thinking about?”
“My ex-husband,” I answer honestly, then blanch. “I mean, shit, I’m sorry. That’s not, what I mean is—Let me explain.”
Ethan doesn’t look offended. In fact, he’s wearing an amused half-grin. “Please do.”
“The only thing Chris ever made for me were weight-loss smoothies.” Seeing the look on Ethan’s face, I realize how that sounds and add quickly, “They were his, not mine. But he always offered me a glass.”
