“Ready to go night night, pretty girl?” I readjust her on my hip and snuggle her closer. She lays her head on my shoulder in response.
As we start to walk away, Jack's hands freeze midair, holding a carton of eggs. “You’re not working today. I’ll put her down for her nap.”
I wave him off and continue toward the stairs. “As if I need to be on the clock to want to spend time with this sweet baby.”
Sienna’s eyelidsdroop quickly and she’s out like a light within a few minutes of being rocked. After gently placing her in her crib, I quietly close the door and return to the kitchen.
Jack is slicing through the ciabatta with a serrated bread knife and the familiarity of our time together last night and this morning almost bowls me over.
Aside from Kruz, I haven’t been close to many people. The thought of forming relationships has always filled me with dread, likely because my psyche is convinced no one could ever truly want me.
Thanks, parental figures.
And thanks, in-depth study of psychology, for my astounding self awareness.
The ease with which our connection formed is both surprising and overwhelming.
“That was fast.”
Sure fucking was.
But I know he’s not referring to what’s on my mind. “Baby girl crashed hard.” I take my place next to him and turn the stove on, cracking eggs in the pan he’s already put oil in.
“How did you sleep last night?” He pulls a toaster from one of the bottom cabinets and places it on the counter, plugging it in before dropping a slice of bread in each slot.
“Much better than I have been lately once you helped get me there.” My face burns hot as the words pass my lips, but if he notices the way it sounded to me he doesn’t say anything. Maybe his mind isn’t as far in the gutter as mine is. “Thank you,” I add.
“Happy to help.” I don’t miss the way the corner of his mouth twitches.
We fall into a rhythm with one another making brunch as the afternoon sun filters through the kitchen window.
This seemingly mundane task of cooking together is more than just making food—there issomethingin the way we are dancing around one another, both physically and in every other way.
I can't help but wonder if there’s anything I do that causes him to feel the same desire as I feel when I see his muscles flexing under his fitted button-up shirt. I'm curious if he notices all the different ways I look at him with longing; whether it's when he's with Sienna, snuggling my dog, or just doing things around the house.
I want him in so many differentfucking overwhelmingways.
He is so hard to read at times, and part of me feels like a silly schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher.
Is that all this is?
Before last night, I couldn’t imagine the way I feel ever being anything other than unrequited.
I’m reaching for plates on a shelf inside the cabinet that’s just out of my reach when I feel him step in behind me. His hand goes to my hip as he reaches over my head to grab them for me.
The act seems to flip a switch for him just as much as it does for me because once he places the plates on the counter in front of me we just stand there.
Frozen.
His hand still on my body.
I place mine over it and pat just once, a friendly gesture to let him know it’s fine.
So fine.
He smells like bergamot, and lavender, and something I can’t quite put my finger on but I want to drown in it.
But when I spin out of his grip, instead of moving away he cages me in against the counter.
