Page 91 of Hopelessly Teavoted
“Yeah, I get that.” He wasn’t looking forward to it, especially not with how snappish the man was about sharing a copy machine. He could only imagine how grumpy Chet would be if wrongly accused of villainy. “I do need to do that. I will. Monday.”
“Do it, but be careful. Text me if you need anything. Promise?”
“I do.”
She bit her lip, and he leaned against the closest wall to keep from giving in to the pull that was her body, beckoning himalways to come closer, even if it would mean sudden death. “Az, I’ve been thinking about everything. About forever. But in the meantime, what if I called one more pretend?”
How bad was dying, really?
Fuck. Two minutes and his resolve to avoid a fiery death was already at an all-time low. He had to cut the tension between them, and he couldn’t do it with his tongue the way he’d most prefer to. Tongues, though, had other uses.
“I acceptyourpretend, though I told you, I’m not pretending anymore. I want you to know that everything I say, everything I do, isn’t pretending anymore. It’s all real.”
“Oh yeah? Want to come upstairs and talk about it? I can’t promise anything fancy, but I do have several packages of ramen that could have your name on them. From across the table, of course.”
“Obviously,” he said, smile faltering. She bit her lip, and he pushed on. “Is it the chicken flavor?”
“The best one. Yes. Come on, you can help me.” She stood up, fishing in her pocket, and took out a pair of long silk gloves. She rolled the sleeves of her turtleneck up, pulled the gloves on, rolled the sleeves back down so that the fabric overlapped, and reached for his hand.
The warmth of it hit him through the fabric, and he wondered for a moment if he was burning, heart bursting at the almost of touching her, his joy drowned once again.
Az focused instead on watching the shape of her as she walked up the stairs slowly, not dropping his hand, though stretching back to hold it must have been awkward. Vickie’s jeans were tight enough that he could see the outlines of her hips, her thighs, and the spot where they met and the fabric had worn almost bare. Damn. That was his favorite spot, but he’d have to be careful about touching her, even through clothes.
One little hole, one ripped seam, one tiny mistake would be all it took to kill him.
Half-hard by the time they reached the top of the stairs, hewondered if his dick had a death wish. He’d have to be very, very careful around Vickie.
The size of the apartment didn’t help. Five minutes in and he’d resorted to standing across the kitchen from her, snapping his help from afar.
Leaning against the refrigerator, he watched her at the stove.
“Tell me you at least have a vegetable to add to that.”
“I’m not sure. Can you spell one for me?”
“Vickie. Is there anything relatively healthy we could add? Tofu?”
“I have jam,” she offered, gesturing to the refrigerator.
“Jam is not a vegetable, and it does not go with ramen.”
“Well, help yourself to the fridge. I was going to get fancy and put eggs on top.”
“I could run to the store.”
Vickie whirled around. “And pass up on the urgency of pretending?”
“No, you’re right. Who needs vegetables? Vegetables are the worst.” The slow curl of her lip gave her away. He’d never deny her this pretend. Never.
“Yeah. You know, I was going to have a few drinks anyway, and I shouldn’t drive home.” He flicked his fingers together, and a dark and stormy appeared on the counter next to her, matching the one he held, both in plastic pirate-shaped cups that his mother had left over from some sort of event in the storage area.
“Nice,” said Vickie, smiling at the cup, and taking a sip.
He took a long drink, set his glass down, and opened the fridge to see if there was actually anything that could help them eat like people who were approaching thirty and occasionally required nutrients. She had cheese, coffee creamer, and eggs, but there was an unopened bag of baby carrots he could work with. He snapped his fingers, and the carrots cut themselves with a knife, folding into neat matchstick piles.
“Quick thinking, Mr. Hart,” she said, her tone playful enough to force him to down the rest of the drink.
“Don’t—” he bit off, shifting uncomfortably in his jeans. “Don’t call me that.”
