I put the car in park and turn off the engine. She sighs as my hand brushes across her temple. A set of sleepy eyes look up at me. “We’re here.”
She smiles through a yawn as she contorts her body into an adorably awkward four-limb stretch. She pats my cheek and I grab her hand, placing a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist.
Yup. Easy.
Upstairs, after a quick tour of my apartment, I offer her the bathroom first. While she’s occupied, I whip up some mozzarella pesto grilled cheese sandwiches because neither of us has eaten since lunch.
She meets me in the kitchen dressed in a white cotton pajama set. Messy bun propped on top of her head, makeup washed away and those glasses perched atop the bridge of her nose, she’s beautiful. Breathtaking.
“Is that…” Her words trail off as she leans over the pan, inhaling a deep pull of the aroma. “Pesto and mozzarella?”
“Yeah, I was starving. Thought you might be hungry, too.”
“Hmmm. Interesting.”
I narrow my eyes.Does she not remember?
I switch off the burner and transfer the sandwiches to plates. Welean our hips against the kitchen counter and turn to face each other.
“Do you remember the first time you made me one of these?” she asks, sandwich held aloft between us. She takes a bite, brows lifting as she waits for me to answer.
A slow smile spreads across my face.
“It was that night that Drew?—”
“—threw that house party,” I finish for her. “Yeah, I remember.”
A faint smile crooks the corner of her lips between bites. “Then you took me to?—”
“I took you to seePitch Perfectand bought you the most inferior M&Ms one could ask for,” I interject again.
She clears the crumbs from her mouth with a swipe of her tongue. “What did a peanut butter M&M ever do to you?”
I laugh as I bop the tip her nose. Her nose scrunches at the contact, causing her glasses to shift. She casually slides them back into place with her finger as she takes another bite.
Maybe I do have a glasses kink.
“Yours tastes so much better than mine,” she says, her gaze pinned longingly on the sandwich between her fingers. “Why is that?”
I toss my sandwich onto the plate and dust off my hands. “You been making my sandwiches, Fish?” My arms come around her waist.
“Um, obviously,” she says, “They are the superior of grilled cheese sandwiches, after all.”
She winks at me and something warm flickers in my chest as I remember saying those exact words to her all those years ago.
I run my hands down her spine, kiss her jaw and nip at her ear.
Sandwich balanced precariously between our chests, she cranes her neck to take another bite as I flick my tongue over her earlobe. “Do not distract me with your big man hands and fancy tongue, old man.”
I grin against her ear. “You haven’t even seen all the things my tongue can do.”
“Mmmm,” she hums with a tilt of her head, baring more of herneck to me. Another bite and she mumbles through a mouth full of food, “Is it the pesto?”
Body shaking laughter overtakes me and I bury my face in her neck. Her chuckle matches mine as I pull back to find her eyes. She holds the last bite of her sandwich up to my lips and I swipe it.
Without a word, I retrieve the ingredients I used from the fridge, placing them on the counter in front of her.
“You shred your own mozzarella?” Her lips curl as she stares down the ball of cheese like it personally offended her. Then, she scoops up the pesto jar. “And what kind of bougie-ass pesto is this?” She spots the bread. “Artisan sourdough?” she shrieks.
