Page 114 of Only With You

“You can puton some music if you want. You can even use my record player. It works now. This guy fixed it and I hate to admit it, but he did a pretty good job.”

I hold back a smile. “Which guy?”

“Just some guy. He’s not important though, but you’re welcome to use it. I’m going to change. I’ll be quick.” She simpers to herself and bolts to her room before I say something.

I let loose the smile I was trying to hold back. I’ve been doing that a lot and I really don’t mean to, but anytime she’s around, my lips stretch of their own accord. Something about being around her makes me feel really good.

But a nagging thought springs in my head, asking,But for how long?

My smile drops, and instead of using her record player, I turn the TV on and go to YouTube, but pause when I look at myself on the screen. She doesn’t have any idea I’m her favourite singer and I’ll never tell her, but it’s fun to watch her obsess.

When I hear some shuffling in the background, I click on the song I recently did a cover on, “Yellow” by Coldplay.

She comes out and gasps from behind me, and when I pivot to look at her, I don’t blink or breathe.

She’s out of the angel costume, and now wearing the black jumper I gave her and wow, she looks lovely. “Did you just willingly put on Haptic?”

“I don’t want to hear it.” I will myself to stop staring at her and grab the pizza from the dining table.

She pretends to zip her lips and hums along. “God, I love this song. He must’ve just posted this.”

I know she does. She mentioned it once and said she’d loveHapticto cover it. So I did. How could I not? She’s an avid listener, it’s nothing.

When her stomach grumbles, she stares at the box of pizza in my hand. “I really shouldn’t be eating this, but God, I’m starving,”

“Why’s that?”

“My sister, Natalie, is getting married in a few months and I’m the maid of honor, so I need to watch what I eat,” she explains, grabbing two bottled waters from the fridge and some napkins.

She follows me to the living room and pushes the coffee table and we both take a seat on the floor, setting the pizza between us.

After we left the museum, her stomach started grumbling, and after minutes of going back and forth, she tentatively agreed on getting something to eat.

I don’t want to be an arsehole and say she doesn’t need to watch what she eats, because I’ve seen the way she eats. It’s always wholesome and nutritious foods. I would know since we’ve cooked and eaten together.

“Good thing it has fruit.” I pick up a slice, pointing at the pineapple scattered around the pizza.

Saint would hate this. I almost snap a picture to send to him, but decide against it. That’ll only rile him up and he’ll blow up my phone with facts and other bullshit on why it’s the worst thing anyone could have ever created.

That draws a small smile on her face. “Can you tell my mother that?”

I know she means that as a joke, but the strain in her voice tells me otherwise. She must’ve not meant to say that out loud, because she clears her throat and grabs a slice, along with a small cup of ranch and a napkin.

“Look at us.” Pleasure laces her voice.

I stare at her, conflicted, wanting to say more because what she said about her parents at the museum resurfaces in my head. But it’s obvious she’s done talking about it and I don’t want to push.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” I ask, taking a bite of my pizza.

She kicks her foot against my leg. “We’re getting along. Sharing food. And we’re alone. Not arguing. I’m so proud of us.”

My brows furrow. “You just kicked me. I’m not sure that counts as getting along. Now you’re going to have to put a dollar in the jar.”

She scowls.

“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t make the rules.” I shrug and take another bite and peek down at her uneaten slice. “Eat, or it’ll get cold.”

“Just know, I still can’t stand you.”

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