Page 66 of Doughn't Let Me Go

Porter watches her go, a sweet smile on his lips.

When he turns back to the stove, I open my mouth, but he shakes his head.

“No.”

It’s quiet, but it speaks volumes.

He doesn’t want to talk about what I saw.

I let it go for now.

We work together in silence, me making us another pot of coffee and Porter finishing up the rest of the pancakes.

We’re setting out our mugs and plates when Kyrie comes leaping back into the kitchen and right up to the table, jumping into her chair.

“Let’s eat! Hey, wait a second. I’m missing my—”

“Here you go,” Porter interrupts, sliding another mug onto the table. “Like I could forget.”

I raise my brow at the cup of coffee sitting in front of his daughter.

Decaf,he mouths.

Thank god,I say back.

He laughs, and I enjoy the best pancakes of my life.

* * *

If I didn’t needthis money more than anything and I wasn’t totally in love with Kyrie, I’d have quit this job after the first day. It was clear right away that night we spent together touched us in ways we weren’t expecting and we were ill-equipped to deal with that reality. Pretending we had our shit together was easy at first, but it’s getting harder.

But since Idoneed this money, I’ll settle for hiding.

Nothing sexual has happened between us since The Pantry Thing, but there’s something else that’s been causing me to run from him every chance I can.

Ever since I sat down with Porter and Kyrie Wednesday morning, things have felt so…well, domestic.

It feels so natural it’s become unsettling.

So, I hide.

It’s crushing to simply be in the same room as him. To remember what he looked like naked. How his brows pinched together as he fell apart. The way my name sounded on his lips when it was whispered softly.

It’s all just too much, and I have to get away before I explode or say or do something stupid.

Like kiss him.

If I’m in the kitchen and Porter walks in, I suddenly remember I need to switch over Kyrie’s laundry.

If I’m playing with Kyrie and he checks in on us, I excuse myself to the bathroom. It’s so frequent I’m certain he thinks I have IBS or a urinary tract infection.

Since I live in his house and I’m in his space, it’s the only defense mechanism I’ve got, but even that is slowly starting to not be enough because everywhere I turn, he’s there.

Today is my birthday—not that he knows—and I’m going to ask him if I can have a few hours off tonight to go out by myself.

I need a break.

I need comfort food.

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