His time in the service. His older brother. His father.
Not a single mention of a mother.
Good.
Momma’s boys are a nightmare.
Mothers cling. They compete. They see women like me and know they’re going to lose their sons. And I do not have the patience for that.
I absorb every detail, every tiny thing.
Because this? This is gold.
This all goes in my notebook.
Later. When I get home. When I’m in my room, curled up in bed, drenched in the scent of his cologne from where I sprayed it on my pillow.
He asks me a few questions, but I redirect. Smile. Laugh. Tease.
He’s not ready to know me yet.
He needs to want to know me first.
“What else do you like to eat?” I ask, licking the last bit of chocolate from my fingertip.
He looks at me like the question is a trick. “You gonna cook for me?”
I smile, slow. “I will.” A pause. A tilt of my head. “If we get that far.”
His jaw ticks.
Oh, love.
We are already that far.
But I let him pretend.
I let him think there’s still some control left in his hands.
And then?
Then he leans in.
Just a little. Just enough for my breath to catch.
And for a second, just a second, he hesitates.
Like he’s giving me a chance to back away. Like he’s waiting for me to stop him.
As if I ever fucking would.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
And that’s all he needs.
Because then his hand is sliding over my thigh, firm, deliberate.
