Page 36 of Pucked and Pregnant

“He was?—”

“Let me guess. Angry,” she deadpans.

“Actually, he was worried. He feels awful. I think he’s finally starting to work through some things, realize some things,” I say.

“Are you sure you were speaking to Max?” She raises an eyebrow.

I chuckle lightly. “Yes, and I think whenever you’re ready to talk to him again, he’s going to surprise you.”

“I won’t hold my breath,” she grumbles.

I drop onto the couch next to her. “I’m serious. Just give him a chance to talk without yelling at him for once.”

“I do not?—”

“You do. You both do,” I say firmly. “I just think this time it’s worth actually listening to him.”

“You really mean that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

She glances at her suitcase, then back at me. “I was going to stay in a hotel, but when I got to the subway, I rode around aimlessly until I ended up here. I know it’s a lot to ask, but can I stay here, just for the night?”

“Max just asked me the exact same thing. He wanted me to invite you to dinner then invite you to stay here. It’s the last thing he said before my doorman rang up.”

“He didn’t demand you drag me back home by my hair? Wow.”

“I told you, it’s different this time.”

“Okay, I believe you but?—”

“But what?”

“Can we just not talk about my brother tonight? It’s been a long day, and I don’t want to think about him anymore.”

“I think I can manage that.” I smile.

We end up watching foodie shows and yelling at the contestants the rest of the afternoon, just like we used to do when we were kids. It’s nice, comfortable even, and surprisingly easy to remember that she’s off-limits.

Dinner, however, is another story.

I can’t stop stealing glances at her while I cook. She’s let her hair down. Her shoes are off. She’s got a glass of my favorite red in her hand, and every time she takes a sip, I find myself feeling jealous of the wine glass.

Liv looks so wonderfully at ease that it’s hard to remember that she doesn’t belong here. Seeing her like this makes me want dangerous things, like having her at my table and in my bed until the day we die.

I’ve seen her naked yet somehow, this feels like the most intimate moment we’ve ever shared.

By the time we sit down for dinner, fantasies of shared closets, rumpled sheets, lazy Sunday mornings, and a thousand more dinners just like this one are running rampant throughout my brain.

“So, what are you working on?” she asks between bites of homemade sweet and sour pork.

“Working on?”

“You’ve got something on your face.” Liv points to her temple. “Paint, I think?”

I thought I’d done so well not touching my face but apparently not.

“It’s charcoal, actually,” I say.

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