Page 49 of Fly Boy
At this point, my resolve is nonexistent. It would be so easy to forget about all the reasons why repeating last night is a bad idea. It’s like the handle sizzles, scolding my skin, preventing me from making a mistake.
I snatch my hand away, the fictitious burn helping me come to my senses and latch onto the shred of self-control I still have. Dragging myself away with a snarl, I snatch my discarded sweats, along with a t-shirt, and yank them on roughly.
Storming toward the stairs, I pause in the doorway to my room, that magnetic pull wanting to tug me back as my fingers grip the doorjamb until my knuckles are white.
I’m not done with her.
One night and that’s it. Come tomorrow, you move on.
I thought one night could cure me of my ridiculous obsession. If anything, it’s made it worse. The warning lights are on, my plane is going down, and I don’t see an out.
“World's Greatest Pilot,” Pippa reads off my mug as she steps into the kitchen, finding me leaning against the counter. She finger-combs her damp hair, brushing it over one shoulder, smirking. “Cute.”
“When we were growing up, my dad’s favorite mug was this chipped, faded old thing we got him withWorld’s Greatest Dadon the front, so when Teddy, my brother, told us his wife was pregnant, Dad ran out and bought him one.” I glance at the mug, my lips twitching as I brush my thumb over the decal. “He felt sobad for not getting me and my other brother one that he bought this andWorld’s Greatest Photographerthe next day.”
“Your dad sounds sweet,” she says.
My dad’s the fucking best.
“Coffee?” I ask, pushing off my spot and raising the mug in offering.
“Sure.”
Placing the cup down, I turn and open the cabinet, pulling out a pod and rolling it in my hand. “Americano, okay?”
“Uh-huh,” she replies, sounding distracted.
“Or I can try to make…erm…” I stare into the nearly empty shelf, thinking. Fancy coffees with flavors or special cream aren’t my thing, and I’m not even sure Pippa is one of those girls who’s into that, but if she is, I guess I could try. I’ve got a milk frother and a…
“Fuck,” I groan. “I think the milk might be out of date again.”
She doesn’t answer, and I glance at her, noticing her in the doorway to my living room, peering inside.
“What are you doing?” I ask. She jumps, rubbing her breastbone when she turns around, the faint pink color from this morning returning to her cheeks. I watch as she walks over to the breakfast bar, standing on the same side as me and leaning against it.
“I didn’t know what I imagined when I thought about where you lived, but it wasn’t this,” she muses.
My eyebrows raise. “You think about where I live?”
“I didn’t until this morning,” she says with a slight shrug of her shoulder.
“And…?” I question when she doesn’t elaborate.
“You’re a man who doesn’t collect clutter.”
“What would I need clutter for?” I ask, opening another cabinet, this time directly in her eyeline, and grab my other mug.
She gasps in delight, and I slam it shut just as she darts forward, embarrassment coating my skin.
“Oh my god,” she laughs. Knocking her hip against mine, she stretches up to reopen the door and looks inside. “You need to empty your dishwasher.”
“It is empty.”
“Where’s the rest of them?” Her eyes sparkle with amusement as she looks at me from over her shoulder.
Reaching around her, my arm brushes against her lower back, and I lift the mug I was drinking from. “Right here.”
She snorts. “Wait, you only have two? What about everything else?”
