Page 147 of Lighting the Lamp
“Sir.”
He pauses, grinning like trouble. “Ma’am.”
“Put that down and back away slowly.”
“What? I’m just trying to save you the trouble of climbing the counters, Shortcake.” He flashes me a wicked grin.
“Shortcake?”
“New nickname.” His smile gets dangerously wide. “Sweet, short, and mean enough to bite if someone deserves it.”
“Jury’s still out,” I respond, heat creeping up my neck as I snatch the glass from the shelf and placing it in the correct place.
“Oh, it’s sticking.” He plucks an actual mug from the box and hands it to me like he’s innocent. “So, what’s the first rule of your sacred kitchen system?”
This isn’t just a kitchen to me. It’s the first proof that this was never a fling destined to burn out. One month after we found our way back to each other, the idea of living apart felt absurd. If anyone in either family thought it was too soon, they kept it to themselves, maybe because when we’re in the same room, inevitability speaks louder than time. About five minutes from the rink and three blocks from my mom’s front porch, right in the center of everything that matters to us. We could’ve moved into his condo in Portland, but that wasn’t an option for me. My mom needs me close, and I love this town too much to leave for longer than a few days.
Beau didn’t even blink when I said I didn’t want to leave. He just called a realtor, and two weeks later, we were touring this house on Maple Street.And now, his pill organizer sits on the counter beside the salt shaker, a quiet reminder that he’s taking care of himself, taking this seriously, and not running from it anymore.
“Rule one: mugs above the coffeemaker. Rule two: glassware is in the next cabinet. Rule three…” I narrow my eyes, jabbing a finger toward him. “Never, under any circumstances, stack Tupperware without the matching lid, or I riot.”
He isn’t listening to the words anymore, but to the sharp edge of my voice when I lay down rules, to the stutter in my pulse he can feel this close, and to the way I’ve stepped into his space without even realizing it. His eyes track the jab of my finger, then slide up my throat, lingering on my mouth like every sound I make belongs to him. And suddenly the room is too small. Hisbody radiates heat without touching me, wrapping around me, pulling every shallow breath from my chest.
“You’re bossy in a way that keeps a man alive,” he murmurs, gaze already sliding to my mouth. “Say it again.”
“Say what again?”
“Anything,” he says, low and intent. “Just like that.”
The first soft and tender brush of his mouth against mine cuts off my next word, stealing my breath, but then he presses his lips hard against mine as my fingers fist in his shirt because he’s the only solid thing in the room.
When his thumb drags across the strip of skin at my waist, my gasp breaks between us, and he swallows it whole. The kiss deepens, slow but devastating, each tilt of his mouth pulling me under. He tastes like mint and hunger, something I’ve been starving for.
My head tips instinctively, offering him more of me. His palms skate up my ribs, fingers spreading wide, like he’s relearning every inch of me, and the air thickens into gravity. He kisses me like he plays hockey, and it wrecks me.
“Beau,” I whisper, though it comes out more plea than warning.
“Say my name again,” he growls softly, brushing his mouth down to the corner of my jaw, the pulse fluttering in my throat.
He backs me toward the counter until the cool edge presses into the backs of my thighs. I should stop as his mouth trails lower. The scrape of his teeth under my ear is enough to send sparks ricocheting down my spine.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, breathless, the words breaking on a gasp.
“Breaking it in,” he murmurs, voice rough against my skin.
“The kitchen?” My laugh hitches on a moan.
“It’s a good place to start,” he counters, and then his mouth is on mine again.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing and sets me on the counter, sliding between my knees like he belongs there. The cool slab shocks my thighs, erased instantly by his heat. I hook my legs around him, dragging him closer, and his groan vibrates through me. His hands slip under my shirt, warm against bare skin, slow but intentional.
Truth is, I’ve been unraveling since he set the toolbox down this morning and kissed my forehead instead of my mouth. Since he whispered,Welcome home,and I felt everything under my ribs tilt. It didn’t matter that it had only been weeks. It mattered that the choice felt steady, not rushed, but like gravity pulling instead of running. All that pent-up want has been simmering underneath every box and bubble wrap roll, and it chooses now to ignite. I pull him closer, and he comes willingly, a rough sound tearing out of his throat as if I just yanked loose whatever control he had left.
Beau’s mouth is hungry and sure, his kiss telling me exactly how the rest of the night will go. He tastes like the future, mint, and the kind of relief that makes your bones weak.
“Alise,” he says against my lips, and my hips shift against the counter beneath me, answering him.Crack.
We freeze, looking down at the counter like it might explain itself. It dips on the right side by the wall, a neat little fault line snaking between the backsplash and slab.
