Page 16 of The Last Person
“And Deidre, look at these beautiful blooms. This is your brightest year ever,” I say to my Christmas cactus.
“How’s Greta doing?”
I turn to look at Hardy, standing in my doorway, a cup of something in one hand, and wax strips covering his chest.
“She’s thrilled now. Acting like she was never mad about moving in the first place.”
“So fickle,” Hardy chastises, walking into the room.
“She’s always been that way.” I check a couple more plants, then turn to Hardy, nodding at the cup in his hand. “What’s that?”
“Power drink to start your day.”
I walk over and take it from him, eyes going wide when I see what it is. “A green drink?”
“It’s good for you.”
“Debatable, but either way, how could you bring it in here?” I nod toward the windowsill. “In front of the kids?”
He tilts his head. “Is this why you never ate salads at home before? Because they were on the edge of the dining room?”
“Yes. I don’t need them thinking I’m going to eat them.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “This is practically made out of their cousins.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a touch dramatic?”
“I’m the dramatic one? Who yelled at me when I didn’t want to stay up and watch athirdepisode ofDawson’s Creeklast night?”
“I didn’t yell. I was just a little hyped. It’s your fault for getting me hooked on the show.”
I shake my head and aim for the door. “Whatever you say.” As I walk by him, I rip one of the wax strips off his chest.
“Ow! You asshole!”
His footsteps thunder behind me, and I laugh, running down the hall and holding my cup out in front of me. “Careful, you’ll spill the puréed plant sludge.”
He’s faster than me, so I know I’ve only got a few seconds before he catches me. I skitter around the corner and shove the cup onto the counter, right as Hardy’s arm wraps around me.
“Really? You’re tackling the linebacker?” In midair, I spin, wrap an arm around him, and adjust the position so we don’t hit the floor too hard.
It’s not until we’re both on the floor that I realize the mistake I’ve made.
Hardy is pinned beneath me, our faces less than a foot apart, and our crotches touching.
Don’t think about his crotch.
Hardy’s eyes are wide as he stares up at me, and my heart is pounding.
Our eyes lock, and for one stupid, fragile second, I almost drop my lips to his.
Until I remember that would destroy everything.
But the thought is there. The image of it. And then the noise of surprise he’d make as my lips hit his.
Oh, shit. My cock takes an interest in that thought, and as all my blood rushes in that direction, I can’t breathe. I shift so I’m on all fours, giving my crotch some breathing room.
“Tackling the linebacker,” Hardy says, his wide eyes gone and smirk now playing on his lips. “Sounds like the title of a romance book.”
Thankfully, the playful tone in his voice settles my body down a little.
