Page 26 of Why Not Both?

“How do I look?” Lis asks.

Beautiful. Gorgeous. Perfect. I say none of these because I know she doesn’t want to hear about how much I’m falling for her. And I am. Every second I spend in her company, I fall further and further and I can’t seem to stop the descent.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. They fit perfectly.”

She laughs again and I kneel to help her roll up the pant legs. She holds my shoulder for balance as she lifts one foot and then the other. I roll each one up, revealing bright red toenails on each foot. My fingers brush her skin, probably more than is strictly necessary. I don’t exactly care.

When I stand again, she looks up at me with wide, green eyes. She is so hot, wearing my clothes, surrounded by me, my hoodie and sweatpants almost marking her as mine.

But she doesn’t want to be mine.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to wear nail polish in the kitchen,” I say.

She blinks as though coming out of a dream and then rolls her eyes. “I don’t cook with my feet, Spencer.” She hands me a bundle of clothes. “Everything is soaked. Except my underwear, thank God.” I take the clothes and shove them into the dryer with mine.

Then I notice a black garment still in the bathroom, hanging from the towel rack.

“What about that?”

She flushes pink and I’m overwhelmed with the need to kiss her for a moment, struggling to get it under control.

“My bra got soaked as well. But it has to hang dry.”

My brain short circuits. She had been wearing a black, lacy bra. Now, she’s wearing my hoodie and no bra. All I need to do is slide my hands under the hem along her silky skin. Just a few inches up to reach the soft swell—

I turn to the dryer, fiddling with the dials and pressing start, trying to contain the lust that is currently eating me alive.

“Okay,” I say. “Time to make you lunch.”

She follows me into the kitchen. “You know, I’m the chef. I should be making you lunch.”

“Don’t worry. I only know how to make one thing. So you can do all the cooking after this.” I send her a wink over my shoulder as I get the ingredients out of the fridge that I’d prepped this morning.

She leans against the counter out of the way, her arms hidden in the sleeves of my hoodie and wrapped around herself. “What are you making?”

“It’s a melted Havarti and prosciutto on brioche.”

She presses her lips together and I know she’s fighting a smile. “You’re making me a grilled ham and cheese sandwich?”

“Well, if you’re going to take that attitude—”

“No. It sounds awesome.” Her eyes are shining as I get everything ready, watching me.

“I admit, it’s a little intimidating having a chef watching me cook.”

Finally, she laughs. “Why don’t I go sit at the table?” She motions to the dining room on the other side of the pass through. “You feel intimidated, and I feel awkward being in the kitchen and not cooking.”

“Well, here. You can do this then.” I pull the popcorn and hot chocolate from the cupboard.

She looks down at the packages with an eyebrow lifted. “You want me to make powdered hot chocolate?”

“How else do you make it?”

“From scratch,” she says, but she moves to the microwave and gets the popcorn started.

“You’ll have to teach me how to do that,” I tell her. “But I doubt we have what we need.”

“Where are your pots?”

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