Page 67 of The Fix

“You made hot chocolate … from scratch?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It sounded like a better idea than microwaving Bailey’s.”

Anna sputters out a laugh and nods her agreement. “It’s pretty good, Toby.” Her cheeks heat, but her smile is fucking radiant when she aims it at me.

I grin, too, my stomach warmed over, my senses filled with her ocean scent. “C’mon. Work’s over for the day.”

Holding out a hand, I wait for her to slide her pale skin against mine, her hand soft to the touch.

Delicate.

It’s what comes to mind when I wrap our entwined hands around her until my arm drapes over her shoulder and I’m pulling her in the direction of the living room.

The woman is anything but delicate, though. She just feels that way in my arms, in this moment, all tucked up into me.

It’s the perfect fit.

“What’s that smell?”

“You saying I stink?”

She snickers. “No, it smells delicious. What did you make?”

I chuckle and release her so that she can plop onto the recliner part of the couch. “The biggest plate of nachos ever.”

Bending to the coffee table, I remove the overturned cooking sheet. The scent of fresh taco meat and chopped onions wafts through the air, and I hum in appreciation.

“Holy crap.” Anna scoots to the edge of her seat. “That looks amazing.”

“It is. Cause I made it.” I grin at her when she rolls her eyes and drag the table closer so we can both reach from our seats.

The woman surprises the hell out of me by snagging a blanket and draping it over both of our laps. She lifts the cooking sheet from its pot holders, tests the bottom to make sure it’s not too hot, and lays it directly on the blanket spread across us.

Her feet are up before I can even register what she’s doing, her hands armed with the fork I left there for her to eat with.

“Remote?”

I’m unable to tame my smile as I produce the remote for the TV over the mantle and hand it over.

She chooses some show about a group of friends all hanging out at a coffee shop together and we settle into the cushions with only an occasional snicker from her and the crunch of chips between teeth.

There are moments that I would swear she’s mouthing the words right along with the actors on the show, but when I sneak a look over, she’s focused on the TV with her lips pressed together.

The silence between us is comfortable. It’s easy.

So easy that when the food is all gone and Anna goes to relax into the couch, I lift her feet into my lap and cover her legs with the blanket.

“What are you doing?”

I shrug and work my thumbs into the socked arches of her foot. “I listen to you pace all damn day. It’s like a stampede in that room while you work.”

She huffs and closes her eyes.

They stay that way, even when I switch to the other foot and knead the tense muscles there long enough that the episode clicks over to the next one.

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