Page 66 of Lace 'em Up

Another time. Another relationship. Another woman.

I sigh and hang my keys on the row of hooks just inside the door, unzip my Eagle-branded jacket and hang it above them.

I didn’t ask my friends to come with me because…it was my fuck up.

My shit to deal with.

“Stupid,” I mutter, knowing that I wouldn’t let that slide with Rome—that he and I have been through enough now to start building lines of communication…and that means calling bullshit on each other when necessary.

But I’m not ready for him to call bullshit on me now, especially with Rory in my house, with how much I want her…with all the memories that’s churning up.

I grind my teeth together.

Table that shit.

My mom is here.

Rory is here.

I can focus on that and the potential shitstorm my newfound engagement with Rory might bring, can focus on the impending matchmaking that will happen if my mom finds out it’s a farce.

Better that than the bullshit in my head.

Better that then?—

Soft music reaches my ears and all thoughts of relationships imploding and my mom’s horrible matchmaking attempts (and how the women she sets me up with have a penchant for stealing my stuff and showing up unannounced at my door) fades.

Because…

Music is playing in my kitchen, drawing me down the hall like a siren’s call.

It’s not my mom’s music, isn’t the random mix of 80s metal and 90s rap. Isn’t a track that came far before me and my siblings’ time, nor is it one of the poppy songs she mixes in that we love to give her a hard time about.

It’s a newer ballad, a soft and sweet song about love that I’ve heard Chrissy play at her house more than once, singing along softly as she cooks or handles one of her rescue cats.

And Rory’s usually singing alongside her.

She’s singing today too, I see as I turn the corner and look into the kitchen. Her cell is on the island, the music slightly tinny from its speaker. And Rory…

My heart skips a beat.

She’s dancing.

Hips moving in a tempting rhythm that has my cock growing hard, my heart skipping a beat, my hands clenching into fists, needing to touch.

But instead…I watch.

I wait.

She’s fucking beautiful as her body twists and turns in a sensuous rhythm. I can almost taste her on my tongue, almost feel those soft curves beneath my palms. There’s cinnamon and sugar in the air, and the soft floral scent of her shampoo. Her laptop’s open on the island. My mom’s pie on the far counter. A pot simmers on the stove.

Domestic.

The entire scene is domestic, and my heart thrums, the beauty of coming home and seeing this, seeing Rory like this, embedding itself into my soul.

Beautiful.

Absolutely fucking perfect.

---