Page 79 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

I pull her into the guest room, closing the door behind us with deliberate slowness. "Speaking of good taste," I murmur, backing her against the wall, "have I told you how incredible you look today?"

Her cheeks flush with color, eyes widening. "Cade! Your mother is literally down the hall."

"I'm just appreciating the view," I defend, though my hands on her waist and my body pressed against hers suggest other intentions.

I lean in, lips finding that sensitive spot on her neck. Her breath catches, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.

"Cade," she scolds, even as her head tilts to give me better access. "It's your mom's house."

"Just a kiss," I promise, moving to capture her mouth with mine.

The kiss deepens quickly, her resistance melting as her arms wind around my neck. I'm constantly amazed by this. How quickly this turns into need, how perfectly we fit together, and how the smallest contact can evolve into consuming hunger.

She pulls away first, breathing uneven, lips deliciously pink from our kiss. "Okay," she breathes, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Okay," I counter, stealing one more quick kiss before opening the door. "Come on, we should help my mom in the kitchen."

The backyard, visible through the kitchen windows, is small but charming. There's a wooden deck with potted plants, a small garden plot in one corner, a bird feeder that's attracted several colorful visitors.

"This is perfect for entertaining," Saylor comments, leaning against the counter as she takes in the view. "I can just imagine summer barbecues out there."

My mother glances up from the oven where she's checking the roast. "That's the plan. I've already picked out furniture for the deck." She straightens, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Cade, would you mind setting the table? Plates are in that cabinet, silverware in the drawer below."

I move to comply, familiar with the rhythm of helping in the kitchen from childhood, when Mom insisted I learn basic cooking skills. "Need help with anything else?"

"Just the salad to finish." She works as she speaks, efficient movements born of decades of practice. "You seem good, sweetheart. Better than I've seen you in a long time."

The observation is casual but pointed, her way of inviting confidences without pushing. "I am good," I confirm, arranging plates on the dining table. "Hockey helps. Keeps me focused, gives me an outlet."

"And her?" My mother's gaze shifts meaningfully toward Saylor, who's examining the collection of family photos on the refrigerator.

I follow her gaze, watching as Saylor leans closer to study a particular photo — Sandy and me as children, gap-toothed and sunburned after a day at the lake. Something warm unfurls in my chest at the sight of her interest in my past, in the pieces that made me who I am.

"She's a big part of it," I admit, voice low enough that only my mother can hear. "She sees me. The real me, not just the parts I want people to see."

My mother's hand rests briefly on my arm, a touch filled with understanding. "Those are the ones worth keeping, Cade."

I turn back to the table, arranging silverware with more attention than the task requires. When I glance up again, Saylor has moved to the island, sitting on a stool as she looks out at the garden. Sunlight catches in her hair, turning it to golden brown.

Seeing her like this… I pause for a moment, imagining this was our house. Saylor perched in our kitchen, waiting for me to cook her dinner after a long day at work. Then it quickly turns into her being pregnant with our baby, and then two kids running around her as I set the table. A shiver runs through me because I can see it. I can picture us together for a long time. This woman is worth keeping.

The vision settles in my chest, right where my heart beats, not a fantasy but a possibility. I think it might be something she would want too.

The doorbell interrupts my reverie, announcing Sandy and Hannah's arrival. My mother hurries to answer, leaving Saylor and me alone in the kitchen.

"Everything okay?" she asks, noticing my expression. "You looked miles away just now."

I cross to her, drawn by an irresistible gravitational pull. "Just thinking about how I cannot wait to graduate and get a place together," I say honestly.

Her smile is worth a million dollars. "Are you serious? That's what you're thinking about right now? That's years from now."

I nod, pecking her lips. "We'll talk about it later."

Sandy's voice carries from the entryway, followed by Hannah's lighter tones and my mother's welcoming responses. I offer Saylor my hand, which she takes without hesitation.

"Ready?" I ask.

"For dinner with your mother, your brother, and your ex? What could possibly go wrong?" Her tone is light, teasing, but I catch the flicker of anxiety beneath.

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