Page 62 of Cinnamon Roll Set Up

“All right, let’s put a pause on our pizza making.” Georgia presents two old dishtowels to the kids. “You two wipe your hands and go sit in the living room while I help Miles get cleaned up.”

“Can we watch Netflix?” Finn asks. He’s already made his personal pizza, complete with symmetrical olive placement. Maybe he actually would have enjoyed an evening of math and cleaning.

“As long as it’s kid appropriate.” Georgia swipes at Willa’s hands with one of the dishtowels and gets her face for good measure. “We’ll be right back.”

She scoots the kids into the living room and turns apologetic eyes on me. “I am so sorry. That’s never going to come out.”

“Can we call it tie-dye?”

“I wouldn’t.” She takes my elbow and drags me into the hallway next to her washer and dryer. “I have stain removal stuff we can try, but we need to act fast.”

She takes the bottom hem of my shirt and starts to lift as if she’s going to strip it off me. Her gaze meets mine, and she sucks in a breath as pink washes over her cheeks. Glancing away, she takes half a step back. “Sorry. You go ahead.”

I’m not sorry. Images of what it would have been like if she’d followed through fill my head. I should probably get my thoughts in check, though. There are kids in the next room.

Oh, and she still doesn’t know how I feel about her. Can’t forget that one.

I peel off the ruined shirt, careful not to let cold sauce drip on my skin or the floor. She takes it from me and lays it across the open washer, stain side up.

“Come with me.”

She leads me into her bedroom. For all the times I’ve been in her apartment, I’ve never been in her room. Maybe it was a line I knew I shouldn’t cross, or maybe there’s just never been a need. But I’m here now, and it does not disappoint.

It’s colorful, like I knew it would be, filled with favorite thrift store finds. A vibrant painting of a wildflower field scattered with pink-and-red blooms dominates onewall. A bright orange-and-yellow block quilt is across her bed, with a solid teal throw at the bottom. A red lamp with a vintage style floral shade sits on her nightstand, along with a stack of her next reads.

It’s just shy of being too much, but that somehow makes it all the more inviting. Like the woman herself.

She pulls a couple of shirts out of one of her dresser drawers and holds them up. “Death Valley or Strawberry Shortcake?”

“How about Death Valley?”

She tosses the shirt at me. “It’s one of my sleep shirts, so it’s nice and oversized. I think it will work for you.”

“It’s great, thanks.” I can’t stop and think about her actuallysleeping in this shirtor my brain will explode in a mess worse than Willa’s marinara catastrophe.

“It’s a good thing she didn’t get any on your pants. I don’t have anything long enough for you.”

“You don’t sleep in XL sweatpants, too?” I tease. Nothing she’d have would ever be long enough for me.

“Usually just the shirt. In the summer, I wear even less.” Her smile disappears. “I mean a tank top and shorts, not like…never mind.”

This is a great example of why I never came in here before. Now that I know what her bed looks like and what she wears when she’s in it, I may never sleep again.

“I’ll give you a minute…” She moves to scoot by me where I’m still standing in the doorway. “If you need to clean up, you can use the bathroom.”

She gestures over her shoulder at the door just cracked open.

“Thank you.”

Her eyes skate down my chest and back up to lock with mine. She blushes again, which is highly adorable. I don’t want something just physical with her, but the fact that she’s noticing the physical at all gives me hope.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll just, um…go take care of your shirt.”

With that, she slips out the door, closing it behind her to allow me privacy I don’t really need. But I don’t mind being closed up in her bedroom.

I pull the shirt on, stupidly pleased to know she sleeps in it. Next time, I want to see her wearingmyclothes.

I debate the wisdom of lingering in her room but decide I’m too much of a gentleman for that. Actually, it’s more like I’m not up for that much torture. I take one last lungful of the scent in here—it brings to mind the caramel apple booth at the Harvest Festival—which probably only proves I’m not a gentleman at all.

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