Page 23 of Wall

And then I forget what I’m doing.

Plus, there’s sweat trickling down my back now.

And my panties are damp. For what reason, I don’t know. I guess it’s the sweat. I should change them, but I’ll fall behind, and my goal is to plate dinner as soon as John gets here ‘cause there’s no way I can focus on cooking while he’s in the room. Shoot, as large as he is now, I’m not sure the both of us could fit in the kitchen.

His muscles are huge, so unbelievably cut my fingers itched to touch them. Like to check if they can possibly be real. I always liked how big John was, how his shoulders worked when we made love, how his chest and arms blocked everything out. But he’s at a new level now.

He could be on the cover of a men’s magazine. I bet he has one of those Vs now that points between his legs.

I shake myself. My mouth’s watering. Because the house smells good. That’s the reason.

Knock. Knock.

I gush in my panties, and my cheeks burn. Oh, crap. He’s here. What’s wrong with me?

I wipe down the counter, tuck my hair behind my ears, and head for the door, dirty dish towel clutched in hand.

He’s early. I check the clock. No, he’s not. He’s five minutes late. I lost track of time, daydreaming about his massive biceps.

I suck down a deep breath, but all it does is make me dizzy, so I brace myself against the entryway wall and throw open the door.

He’s there. On our—my—front porch. He’s even bigger than I was just imagining.

He’s wearing a red flannel shirt and faded jeans. He’s freshly shaven, and oh my, he smells yummy. Outdoorsy.

His lips soften, slow and tentative. His face is so fierce—cut jaw and Roman nose like a highlander or a gladiator—but there’s something sweet about him when he smiles.

“Hey, Mona.”

“Hi.”

He holds up a bottle of wine.

“Is that a Pinot Noir?”

“Yeah. That’s the kind you like, right?”

“Yeah.”

He remembered. I guess it wasn’t that long ago. And I did drink a lot of wine back then.

I scooch away to let him in, and he stoops and brushes a kiss across my cheek. It’s quick, a split second, but the feeling lingers. His lips are cold from being outside. My face is burning hot.

I blink.

He gestures at my apron. “Kiss the cook,” he says.

“Oh. Yeah.” I laugh, and it’s too loud; it echoes in the narrow entrance hall. “I forgot to take it off.”

“Here.” He gently grasps my hips and guides me to face away from him. I feel a light tug and then the strings are dangling at my side.

“I—” I hold up a hand, as if to ward him off. He’s completely filling up the space, and my brain’s glitching. He’s so close. My nipples tighten. He doesn’t miss a beat, strolling on into the living room, completely unaffected, stopping in the middle of the room.

It’s like when you drive past your elementary school, and the playground seems to have magically shrunk. That’s what John’s doing to the living room.

I should invite him to sit. Here? Or in the dining room? We always ate every meal at the breakfast bar, but I keep my laptop and textbooks there now.

John clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get it.”

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