Page 14 of That Reunited Feeling

“Dyl?” I tip up his chin till he has no choice but to look at me.

Every time I look at this beautiful face, the face that lights up my existence, infuriates me, makes me laugh till my stomach hurts, frustrates me, gives me a reason for getting up every day and putting one foot in front of the other, and fills me with more love than I thought could exist in the whole universe, I want to cave and give him everything he wants.

But that would make me a terrible parent. And since he already has one of those, I’ve always intended to be the exact opposite. So this evening, even though I’d love to make him happy by spending the evening zapping alien invaders, I’m determined he’s going to learn something about gratitude.

“For me. Please?” I ask.

He snorts and shrugs.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

As I haul open the front door, lively chatter from the kitchen reaches us.

Chatter that brings me to a dead stop half way across the foyer, and fills my stomach with a heavy rock of ice.

“What?” Dylan asks, pausing beside me.

I hold my finger to my lips to shush him and strain my ears.

Tom.

That’s his voice.

Tom is in the fucking kitchen.

With his half-Boston, half-British accent. Christ, it’s a heady combo that must make knees on two continents tremble. I lock mine firmly into place. But I have less control over my heart, which sputters as it finds a higher gear. I struggle out of my coat, the chill from being outside suddenly replaced by a full-body sweat.

“Why are you all pink?” Dylan asks.

“It’s warm in here,” I say quietly, flicking my eyes back to the front door and wondering if we can sneak out without anyone noticing and I can call and say Dylan’s not well and I have to stay with him.

At the end of the hallway, Jim’s head pops around the kitchen door. “Aha!” he says with a wide grin. “Thought I heard the door squeak. Have to oil that.”

Shit.

But maybe Tom’s about to leave. Admittedly, it’s a little late for getting to a gig in the city, but in a lot of the cool venues the good acts don’t start till about eleven, so yes, maybe that’s what’s happening and he’s on his way out and everything will be fine.

“You give me your coat, young lady,” Jim says, approaching with his arms outstretched. “Did you come here in just that?” He nods at Dylan’s sweatshirt.

“We only walked from just there,” Dylan says, pointing to the right.

I nudge him and shoot him a look he’s all too familiar with as Jim takes my coat.

“I mean, yeah, it’s cold,” Dylan forces out. “But I’m fine.” He looks up at me, and I administer the nod that indicates there’s still something he hasn’t said. “Thanks,” he adds.

As Jim turns to hang my coat in the hall closet, I give Dylan an appreciative smile.

“Well, come in, come in,” Jim says, heading back to the kitchen and beckoning us with enthusiastic arm waves.

We cross the threshold, and there he is. Tom. Standing in the middle of the room. When I saw him the day before yesterday, he was half hidden by the kitchen island. But now, I get the full top-to-bottom view for the first time—with clothes on, anyway.

He’s taller than when he was naked and curled in on himself.

And his shoulders are broader and squarer than they looked when he was hunched over his brunch at the island. The gray long-sleeved T-shirt stretches from one shoulder to the other by way of some firm-looking pecs.

His hair is a little fluffy at the ends, like it’s freshly washed, and his chin is shadowed with stubble that gives the impression he last shaved in London.

He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and digs his teeth into his cushiony bottom lip. Not a trace of a smile. Definitely not pleased to see us. Nor does he look like he’s about to go out.

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