Page 181 of Foreplay on Words

Evan had cleaned out a substantial amount of room in the walk-in closet in his bedroom, but when I started packing, I knew there wouldn’t be enough space.

My sister-in-law, Elle, had flown in without Sadie and had attempted to help with the great purge, but when my brother started calling her ten times a day because he couldn’t handle one tiny, ginger terrorist toddler, I’d sent her home to Minneapolis early.

To say that Ethan was on my shit list might have been an understatement. He owed me big. Maybe I would be soliciting his architectural services to design a guest house. But I also sent his wife home with a new toy stash—courtesy of Talia—in her suitcase. She could use them to replace him or teach him new tricks. I really didn’t want to know which.

“Are you sure we can fit all this in the house?” I asked as Evan expertly navigated the tree-lined road that led to his—our—house.

“You sorted out a lot, Chase. I’m not really worried about it. There’s always the closet in the spare bedroom for you to take over.

“Are you sure you don’t mind me being in your office space?”

Evan sighed as he squeezed my palm. He’d been surprisingly chill about me moving into his house. We’d started working on another erotic thriller after I’d finished my romantic comedy series, so it wasn’t like I’d spent much time in Boston as it was. And technically, we’d kept the condo and not sold it, deciding it made sense to have somewhere to stay when we needed to go into the city for meetings at Vivid.

I’d floated the idea of turning it into an Airbnb, but with the royalty checks that’d started pouring in after Fanny went viral, we weren’t hurting for cash. I was far from earning what Evan did, but my books had gained a new market when Evan’s readers had their kinky awakening.

While Adrian was skeptical that the older demographic would be into all the bondage and floggers, there were a surprising number of kinky cougars out there who liked to read traditional thrillers and those with a much spicier storyline.

“Your new desk is already set up, and I got the model of the walking treadmill pad you showed me. If I didn’t want you here, I wouldn’t have shown up in leather pants begging you to move in with me.”

And what an entrance he’d made. But I digress.

“But living with a girl didn’t turn out so well for you last time, and I don’t want you to hate me, so I might be freaking out a little.” More than a little, but we only needed one person in our relationship to have a panic attack at a time.

“Breathe, baby.” His thumb traced over my engagement ring, wiggling the center stone as he glanced at me before turning his eyes back to the road. “This wouldn’t be on your finger if I doubted your intentions.”

“But we’ve only known each other for like eight months, and is that really long enough to make sure you aren’t secretly dating a narcissistic psychopath?”

He chuckled as he navigated the small moving truck into his driveway, parking it beside his car outside his detached garage. We’d decided the moving boxes would live there until I had time to sort through them all. Having the living space filled with boxes would surely drive Evan’s orderly brain nuts, and I’d spare him from my haphazard organization skills.

His next manuscript was due to Adrian in six weeks, so I’d blocked that time out on my schedule to unpack while he was distracted. Hopefully, that gave me enough time to have the house in order by the time he didn’t have his writing blinders on. Because if it wasn’t, it was probably a good thing I hadn’t sold the condo. Because he would throw my disorganized ass out.

“Pretty sure your crazy would have shown by now.”

“Um. Have you not been paying attention to me lately?” I laughed.

Evan parked the truck and turned toward me, grasping both my hands in his. “You need to relax. There’s only room for one anxious person in this relationship, and I’m claiming seniority on that one.” He had started seeing a counselor again, deciding to start taking a low dose of an anxiety medication once we returned from the book tour.

He hadn’t wanted to ‘raw dog it’—Adrian’s words—and risk a relapse since he was planning to go on a limited engagement tour with his next release. He’d managed to survive the rough start to ours, but I could understand his apprehension.

“And if I didn’t want you to live here, I wouldn’t have asked you in the first place. You know I’m ready for this. Are you?”

My mouth opened and then closed, my words suddenly drying up in my throat.

Evan had been a live-in boyfriend before. While his ex had turned out to be a spectacular thundercunt, he had experience with cohabitation.

The last bathroom I’d shared was with my college roommate, who had questionable hygiene practices and ran an underground, illegal prescription drug ring out of her Hyundai. She was now a successful corporate lawyer. #irony

“You do want to do this, right? I know things happened quickly, but I thought you were on board with this.”

“I do… I mean, I am. Fuck,” I sighed, trying to get this conversation back on track. Evan waited patiently, smiling like he was finally the one with his shit together. It made me want to do unspeakable things to him in this tiny moving truck. But there weren’t enough Clorox wipes in the world to sanitize the seats.

“Take a deep breath and try again.” Smug bastard.

Blowing out a raspberry, I closed my eyes and tried to formulate an eloquent response for my charming fiancé.

“I fucking love you.” So much for eloquent. “And the thought of being unable to smother you with my body while we’re sleeping sounds depressing.”

“Glad I can be of service,” he laughed. “When someone asks about what I’m bringing to the marriage, I’ll make sure warming body pillow makes it on the shortlist.”

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