Page 10 of Look, Don't Touch

“Apartment, condo, townhouse, cardboard box on the street? Was it quiet or loud? Was it filled with people or desolate?” I shrug. “Feel free to describe it in any terms you choose.”

“I grew up in a townhome with my parents and brother. Both my maternal and paternal grandmothers lived with us until they passed when I was seven and then nine. It was pretty busy with my parents running separate businesses from home, as much as they could before video calls, my Glam and Queenie fighting, and my brother being a regular old asshole.”

There is affection in the expletive. Love in the description. More than I ever expected.

“Brother older or younger?”

“Five years older.”

“Tell me about your parents’ relationship.”

“They danced to no music, fought at full volume, and kissed too much for my liking.”

It sounded like a delight. “And with you?”

“They told me they loved me ten times a day. They attended soccer games and awards ceremonies. They gave me everything I could ever want and required respect and chores done in return.”

More than most could say.

“How did they treat your brother?”

“The same.”

“How did your parents show their affection for you?”

“The appropriate amount of snuggles and hugs, the appropriate placement for kisses.”

“What is the appropriate amount and placement?”

He banks a groan, and I fight my smirk. “You know, a kiss on the head or cheek before you leave, a hug hello when you return, no ass grabbing. A snuggle when you’re sick or it’s Saturday morning and you don’t have to get up and go. Again, no ass grabbing.”

“And your brother?”

“He didn’t grab my ass either,” he snaps. I believe him, yet there’s something here. Whether it’s the ass grabbing or the brother, I’m not sure.

“I meant, how did your parents show their affection for him?”

“Same as me. They didn’t play favorites.”

“What about your brother? How did he show his affection for you?”

“The occasional hug. The frequent toss of whatever was close by. A pillow. A ball. A piece of paper. A book. A Cheeto.”

“And your grandmothers?” My phone vibrates again. Again, I ignore it.

“Too many sloppy kisses and crushing hugs, too much talk, talk, talk, talk, but again, no ass grabbing.”

“Tell me about the first time you were in love.”

“Blakely McAllister.” He sighs, actually sighs after saying her name. It’s damn endearing. I expect to have to pull more from him, but he surprises me once again. “She had the brightest smile I’d ever seen. Even in the dead of winter, you couldn’t be gloomy with her around. And her laugh. It made everything better.”

My eyes are on the clouds in the sky and they are fucking heart-shaped puffs of white. “What was your relationship like?”

“Mild stalker and stalkee.”

My ears perk up, but there’s no possession in his tone. It’s sweet and innocent-sounding, which is a feat coming from the big man behind me. “How so?”

“I was thirteen. She was seventeen and…my brother’s girlfriend.”

---