“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He pulls back. “Do you want me to lea—”
“No!” I say, despite the smile playing at his lips. It widens at my plea. I curl tighter into his arms.
“I’ve missed you more than you could possibly know,” Jarron murmurs against my hair.
“I’ve missed you too,” I admit.
He hums happily.
There’s a crowd gathered to watch our warm reunion. It’s only been a week since I saw him last, technically, but that night felt like a fever dream.
A dream I’d very much like to reenact if I’m honest.
Jarron finally looks up and acknowledges the crowd surrounding us. “Where were you headed?” he asks me.
“The speakeasy.”
He takes my hand with limber fingers, and we walk down the hall toward the speakeasy. The crowd parts for us, whispering and gawking boldly, but we both ignore them. Just as I ignore the butterflies in my belly.
Should I tell him about the very inappropriate things that ran through my mind at his verbal claiming of me?
“Chai?” he asks.
“Caramel latte, but I can—”
He gently brushes me to the side. “I’d greatly prefer to make it if that’s all right.”
I grunt but allow him to craft my desired beverage. I wonder if he’s ever made one of these before.
“You don’t like the machine in your workshop?”
“No! It’s amazing,” I blurt out. “But I don’t like being stuck in only two or three rooms. I still like the sunroom and speakeasy to change it up sometimes. It makes me feel a little less… trapped.”
His brow furrows, halting his work with the steaming machine, and he steps closer to me. I look up, mesmerized by this closeness. Our chests are a breath apart.
He brushes the hair from my eyes, the pad of his thumb gently sliding down my cheek to my nose before he swipes the soft spot beneath my eyes. “Have you not been sleeping?”
Thank fuck I showered last night, is all I can think. I’ll have to thank Lola and Janet for their little intervention yesterday.
“Actually, I slept a full nine hours last night.” I grin.
I grab my finished drink, skipping the fancy toppings I sometimes like to add, and pull him with me to a velvet bench.
“And how many hours did you get in the week before that?” he asks casually.
“Less,” I admit. “I’ve been a little obsessive about my potion-making—” I cut myself off. I’m not sure what I was even going to say, but the realization that I can’t tell him why I’ve been obsessive hits me hard and causes my stomach to clench. Is it wrong to lie to him about this? I really don’t like doing it. But…
“Oh?” he asks smoothly. He examines me as I take a sip of my sweet drink.Instead of pushing for details, he asks, “You said you’re feeling trapped?”
“It’s tough being stuck inside the same area for weeks at a time, even if those areas are wonderful.”
His face falls slightly. “I’m sorry—”
“I don’t blame you,” I tell him quickly. “I understand it.”
He frowns.
