Page 1 of Lillian

October 2020

“Hey,”I say out loud, using the hands-free Bluetooth to answer the incoming call while I flick the turn signal and switch lanes. “I’m on my way, and I picked up hibachi.”

“Excellent, I just picked out theperfectmovie.” Lincoln’s deep, baritone voice sounds a little staticky through the speakers. Despite it, the grin in his voice is hard to miss.

This guy…

“We arenotwatching Shrek again,” I groan loud enough for him to hear. “That’s the third time this week.”

“Come on, Frasier. It’s a classic.” I just laugh, secure in the knowledge that we won’t bewatchinganything. Not when he gets a good look at the spicy lingerie number under my knitted sweater dress.

Three months into the relationship, and the sex just keeps getting better. It’s why I’m always teasing him after sex, tellinghim I’m going to put a ring on his finger one day. The first time I said it, I was very obviously teasing. It was only the first time we’d hooked up. Second date. Way too early to talk about marriage.

But afterward, laying there sweaty and so supremely satisfied, I couldn’t stop the laughter-filled words from tumbling out. I’m sarcastic and flippant by nature, and people don’t always appreciate that part of my personality, so when Lincoln grinned at me and shot back with, “I want a flashy proposal,” a breath of relief had whooshed out of me while we both laughed.

Since then our relationship has been nothing but teasing, good times, and long nights.

I pull up to his two-story, cookie-cutter suburbia house. The garage door is already open, so I grab the take-out and walk in, closing it behind me.

“Knock, knock!” I yell into the house.

“Up here!” His voice echoes from the second floor.

The plastic bags rustle as I set the take-out containers on the kitchen island and follow his voice up the carpeted stairs at the end of the short hallway. Lincoln’s bedroom is the first one at the top of the stairs. When I walk in, my eyes lock on his bare back. He’s standing at the foot of his bed folding laundry.

As he picks up a shirt to fold, the muscles in his tanned back tighten and bunch, drawing my eyes. A noise filters in through my distracted state, and I vaguely realize he’s talking to me. But with his body half turned, my gaze roams over his shoulders, to his chest, and down through his toned stomach.

“Frasier!” Finally, I jerk my eyes to his face. The hazel eyes I’ve become semi-obsessed with are laughing back at me, lips tilted up in a sexy grin.

“Sorry… what?” I grin at him, completely unrepentant.

“I asked how your day was, goof.” He rears his arm back and swings forward, chucking a rolled-up ball of socks at my chest.

The squeak that comes out of me is a reflex, but I still bring my hand up to catch the socks and chuck them back at his head.

Without even flinching, he swats them out of the way before they make contact and steps toward me. On me in two long strides, he bends down and tosses me over his shoulder. The breath whooshes out of me as the corded muscle in his shoulder digs into my stomach.

Using my hands to stabilize me, I place them on his ass and glance around to find he’s headed toward the stairs. My stomach bottoms out.

“Lincoln, don’t. Put me down!” Hysteria bubbles as I imagine him accidentally dropping me over the side of the stair railing on our way downstairs.

“Don’t put you down? Yes, ma’am,” he responds dutifully.

“Seriously, put me down!” I try one more time, but he laughs at my panic. Instead, I wrap my arms around his stomach—so he’ll go down if I go down—and squeeze my eyes shut.

With my sight cut off, I feel us sway side to side slightly as he jogs easily down the stairs, hardly breaking a sweat. But still, he keeps his tight grip on the back of my legs until we get to the kitchen, where he gently deposits me on the kitchen barstool next to the island.

“There, ya big baby,” he teases, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead and dutifully ignoring my scowl.

“You’re lucky you didn’t drop me,” I sniff with an air of faux importance, feeling much braver now that my feet are planted on the ground. I’ve hopped off the barstool to pull the takeout from its bags while Lincoln rummages through his cabinets for two plates and some silverware.

“Lil,you’relucky I didn’t drop you.” Before I can retort back with some sort of threat we both know I don’t mean, my stomach growls loud enough for the neighbors to hear it. “Here,” he says, handing me a plate.

I smile thankfully at him and scrape some of the rice, chicken, and veggies onto my plate. “How was work?”

“Oh, much of the usual shit. Contracts, meetings, mergers, and acquisitions.” He dumps some food on his own plate. He wipes the excess sauce from the side of the container and licks it off, drawing my gaze.

“No work drama today?” I ask. He works as a corporate lawyer, which he tells me is just as dull as it sounds. Except for the other day when two people got called to human resources because of an ongoing food war.

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