But this feels even more intimate, and images shuffle in my mind’s eye—of weekends like this with her, doing somethingmundane, yet with her, it’s special. Of Friday nights fucking in every corner, doing something we’ve always wanted to do.
Jesus Christ. Amelia in my clothes really does something to me, rousing instincts I really don’t want to experience in public, especially since, like her, I’m only wearing sweatpants. I can’t hide my erection in this.
It’s not even just the sex. It’s how I feel so at ease and happy with her. As someone who leaves the house once a week and only when absolutely necessary, with a non-existent social life, four friends who are usually out of town, I’m super fine on my own. I love myself and my own company.
But with Amelia’s arrival in my life, I didn’t realize there were hollow spots in my chest, an emptiness I never even knew was there.
Now that she’s here, there’s no way I’m letting her go. Amelia is mine until the day I die.
7
AMELIA
The smoke alarm is screaming again.
“Okay, okay, calm down! It’s not that bad!” I glare at the alarm, as if I can make it shut up with just my mind.
Adam stands below the alarm with a broom, sighing deeply as he presses the reset button for the second time in fifteen minutes. “You sure you don’t want to just set the kitchen on fire? So I can call the firefighters in advance.”
I whirl around, my hair sticking to my face. “I saw that video of a foolproof, easy vodka pasta. It was going to be gourmet.”
“You put the noodles in before the water was boiling.”
“I was preheating the water!”
“That’s not a thing, Amelia.” Adam clamps his mouth shut, as if he’s one second away from laughing. “And that’s coming from someone who cannot cook.”
I hold up a wooden spoon and point it at him. “Look. I didn’t say I was good at this.”
Adam just chuckles and grabs the dish towel for the nth time since I started cooking—an attempt is more like it, but whatever—wiping down the tomato sauce splatter on his counter with the same resigned patience one might use to clean up after a messy toddler.
“I swear your sauce hit the ceiling,” he says, glancing up.
My shoulders slump, and I lean against the counter, burying my face in my hands. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to do something nice for you.”
Adam puts the towel down, comes up to me, and rests his forehead on mine—not an easy thing to do, by the way, given our height difference. “You being here is more than enough, Amelia. I haven’t enjoyed weekends like this.”
“So three hours, a couple of hundred dollars wasted, and two smoke alarms later, we’re still ending up eating deliveries.”
He tilts my chin with his finger, kissing me softly. “Says who? I’m taking you out.”
“I only have last night’s dress.”
“And that’s enough.” He goes back to wiping the counters. “And don’t wear any underwear.”
“I don’t have one.”
“I know.”
The bar is loud.Like, can’t-hear-my-own-thoughts loud. Like, Adam-leans-in-and-yells-right-next-to-my-face-and-I-still-can’t-make-it-out loud.
“I said, do you want to try the smoked old-fashioned?” he shouts, his mouth inches from my ear, breath warm, eyes hopeful.
I blink at him, disoriented. “Smoke what?”
He bursts out laughing, shaking his head as he drapes an arm over the back of my seat, pulling me closer to his side and running his nose along my jaw. “Oh God.”
I nod solemnly, my voice still loud. “We’re so good at conversations. I feel like I’ll wake up hoarse tomorrow!”
