Page 104 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
She smiled and stared. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Warmth flooded me, and I slipped my hand behind her head and pulled her close, in a rush to taste her mouth.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
CHRISTIAN
The cabinet doorhad been sticking for three weeks, and I’d gotten tired of watching Naomi wrestle with it every morning when she reached for the coffee mugs.
We were at her condo, and that cabinet was the only thing falling off the hinges.
“Hand me that screwdriver,” I said, crouched down beside the kitchen island.
“Which one?” Naomi asked, still in her pajamas at eleven on a Saturday morning.
“The Phillips head.”
She handed it over, then settled on the floor beside me, watching as I adjusted the hinges. We’d been spending lazy Saturday mornings at my place, moving through natural routines like we’d been together for years instead of a month.
“You know I could’ve just called maintenance to fix this,” she said.
“You could’ve. But where’s the fun in that?”
“You consider home repair fun?”
“I consider taking care of things that matter to me fun.” I tightened the screws and tested the door’s movement. “There. Good as new.”
“My hero.”
I was putting the tools back in the drawer when one of them slipped out. “I love you,” I said.
Naomi’s whole body went rigid beside me, and she stared at me with wide eyes and parted lips.
“You don’t have to respond, I just… needed to get that out.” I closed the drawer and wiped my hands on the dish towel.
“Christian.”
I faced her and rubbed my hands down her shoulders. “Don’t worry about it.” I kissed the top of her head as I stepped past her. “I’m going to shower. Let’s go grocery shopping after.”
I left her sitting in the kitchen, cursing myself for rushing things. We’d been taking everything slow, letting the relationship develop naturally. The last thing I wanted was to scare her off with premature declarations.
We were walking through Whole Foods like nothing had happened. Naomi pushed the cart while I checked items off the list she’d made, both of us pretending I hadn’t just told her I loved her while fixing kitchen hardware.
“We need eggs,” she said, steering toward the dairy section.
“Brown or white?”
“Brown. They taste better.”
“They’re the same.”
“No, they’re not. Brown eggs come from happier chickens.”
I laughed. “How do you know the chickens are happier?”
“Look at the packaging. The brown egg chickens are always smiling in the pictures.”
