Page 41 of Too Delicious

“You did.”

“I say a lot of things when I don’t trust a man who’s hanging around.”

“I know. I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of your barbs.”

“My sister says I make jokes when I don’t know what to do with my feelings or when I feel backed into a corner.”

“I understand.”

“So I might have a hard time saying I love you back. In fact, I might just chatter for hours while I process what you just said.”

“Take your time.”

We step out of the shower, steam filling the bathroom. Cooper hands me a towel and I’m still chattering.

“I don’t talk this much ever.”

“I know.”

I dry myself off, and then he hangs the towel on the rod. Then he wraps his towel around his waist and leans one hand on the shower stall while I babble.

“I mean. Ostensibly my former fiancé loved me. At least, I think he did. Did he say it to me? I don’t remember. Did I say it to him? I’m sure I did, but it’s weird; I can’t remember much. I only remember how it ended.”

“Yeah.”

It’s like he’s turned on a faucet and I can’t stop talking.

“When does the window close?” I ask, following him into his bedroom as he beckons me forward.

“The window?”

“When would it be too late to say I love you back? Like is there a time limit? When will you decide you no longer love me if I don’t say it back?”

I stand in the doorway of his bedroom and look around. Blank walls, basic king-sized bed with only a fitted sheet and some pillows. Does he sleep like that? Ew.

He opens his dresser, roots around for a bit, and then tosses me a bundle.

I unfold a man’s large tee shirt advertising Virginia Tech and pull it over my head. It’s long enough that it reaches my thighs but stretches across my boobs.

“There’s no window,” he says, searching the drawer. “You need shorts, right?”

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“To sleep in,” he says.

I blink at him. “I live across the street.”

“But you’re sleeping here, love,” he says.

This warms me to my core. “I am?”

“Yeah, and you probably don’t want to sleep Winnie the Pooh style. Here.”

He tosses me a pair of boxers and I pull them on.

“Damn,” he says, thumbing his lip.

“What?” I say, examining my mostly bare legs. “Is it weird? Do I need to shave?”

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