Page 90 of Fake As Puck
I want her flip-flops by my front door and her shampoo in my shower and her voice arguing with me about what to watch on Netflix.
I want ordinary Tuesday mornings and lazy Sunday afternoons and the right to reach for her whenever I want to.
The coffee maker in the corner of the room is one of those fancy hotel ones, and I manage to figure out how to make two cups without waking her up.
“Mmm,” she says from behind me, voice thick with sleep. “Is that coffee?”
I turn around, and she’s sitting up in bed, hair everywhere, squinting at me like I’m too bright to look at directly.
She’s never looked more beautiful.
“Morning,” I say, walking over with her cup.
“Morning.” She takes the coffee and wraps both hands around it. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Bad dreams?”
“Good dreams. Too good.”
She looks at me over the rim of her mug, and something passes between us. Recognition. Memory. The weight of everything that changed last night.
“So,” she says after taking a sip. “That happened.”
“Yeah. It did.”
“Any regrets?”
“None. You?”
“No,” she says quietly, and that warms my chest.
I sit on the edge of my bed, facing her, and try to act normal. Like I’m not hyperaware of every movement she makes. Like the fact that she’s wearing those silk pajamas isn’t making my brain short-circuit.
“What time do we need to check out?” she asks.
“Eleven. We could grab breakfast downstairs if you want.”
“That sounds good. I’m starving.”
“Good. Me too.”
We’re being so normal. So casual. Like last night was just another conversation instead of it changing everything.
But I can see it in the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. The awareness. The new knowledge of what we are to each other now.
It’s driving me insane.
An hour later, we’re packed and checked out and back on the road toward Seattle. The drive should take about four hours, and I’m already dreading every minute of it.
Because Liv is sitting next to me in a sundress and denim jacket, looking like summer personified, and every time she shifts in her seat, her elbow brushes against mine.
Every brush sends electricity straight to my brain.
“Music?” she asks, reaching for her phone.
“Sure.”
