It's a date.
Those three words echo in my mind long after we finished baking. All of the cupcakes are boxed up and ready to go, sitting in my fridge. Brooke flopped onto the couch about twenty minutes ago. Her eyes just wouldn'tstay open any longer. I admire the peaceful expression she has while she sleeps, then stop myself.
That isundeniablycreepy of me. I can't watch her sleep—what's wrong with me? I should just get on my phone, check my email… maybe text my sister. Something. Anything besides watch Brooke sleep.
It's a date.
What are we doing here, Dustin?
It's a date.
I know what I want to be doing here. I want to sweep her off her feet and threaten her ex-husband so he'll never bother her again. I want to do all the sappy stuff in romance novels. I want to be the Gomez to her Morticia. The Jake to her Amy. The Chidi to her Eleanor. The Ben to her Leslie.
But there's so much that could go wrong. We'd have to declare our relationship to HR, of course. And once that's on paper, it would be horrendously mortifying if anything were to happen. Then we'd have to professionally declare a breakup, and the very concept of that makes my stomach turn.
And what if she doesn't want this? What if she's happy to just wave goodbye when I leave? What if we drift back apart and we don't see each other again?
I straighten my spine and shake myself. No. That can't happen. I can make this work—wecan make this work. I know we can. I believe in us.
"Yours, forever," I whisper to her sleeping form. Maybe it's just my imagination, but I swear she smiles.
Brooke
"No,Huey!"Iwakewith a start at the sound of rushing liquid. It takes me a few blinks to realize where I am—I'm not home; I'm at Dustin's fancy-ass corporate apartment. Huey isn't peeing on the floor. It's the sound of a sink.
"Everything okay?" Dustin looks over his shoulder at me. He's washing something in the sink with my tea towel slung over his shoulder.
I snicker. "Yeah, weird dream. What are you doing?"
"Washing up. You said I shouldn't clean until we were done. You fell asleep, so." He grins sheepishly. "I figured we were done."
He looks so domestic. And god, it looks good on him. I admire him as he turns back to the sink, humming quietly. His chestnut brown hair could use a trim, but the shaggy look seems effortlessly chic. And his broad shoulders?Woof. If he calls me a good girl again, I'll probably bark.
After a few minutes of my gawking, he produces a sparkling clean stack of my muffin tins and mixing bowls. He even wiped down the hand mixer and reinstalled thebeater whisks. Jesus. I'm really impressed with him—he kept up with me and didn't take any of my criticism personally. He listened to the feedback, adjusted his actions, and tried again.
Why aren't all men like that? But, then again, I don't need all men to be like that. I have Dustin—
Nope.
Nope. Not going there. This has an expiration date, andI'm fine with that. Honestly, I should just be happy that I've patched things up with Dustin. And I am happy. My job is safe; my team is safe; I've rekindled what was once an incredible friendship-turned-relationship, but does it have to be anything more? No, it doesn't.
But it could be, the tiny little traitorous voice in my head sings out. My stomach ties itself into a knot. I don't want to complicate things—I want to keep hanging out with Dustin. I want to keep beinghappy. Why can't I convince myself that the expiration date is a good thing?
Objectively, it could be. He's helped me regain my confidence, thanks to all the murmured words of praise and adoration over my body. He's given me more orgasms in two weeks than during my entire marriage. He even loves my cat. That's not a euphemism, either. He genuinely adores Huey.
Icouldtake all of this onboard and find myself a local man who's up to my high standards. You know, in time. I don't want to rope anyone into my post-divorce mess ofa life, not really, but it feels much less messy with Dustin. He knows me. He's always known me.
That's why you want it to be more, idiot!
"Ugh," I huff out an exasperated breath at myself.
"Did I do something wrong?" Dustin looks over to me with concern. "I'm sorry—I looked up how best to clean muffin tins, and I don't think yours are non-stick, but I used the soft side of the sponge anyway. Is that okay?"
God dammit.
"You haven't done anything wrong." I shake my head. "In fact, you're perfect."
The smile that breaks out from his face is magnificent. He saunters over to the couch and plops down beside me, grabbing the foot I've tucked under my butt. My eyes roll back into my head as he massages the soles of my feet. The moan that slips from my mouth is inhuman and definitely not professional. Definitely not platonic.
