Page 86 of A Wild Card Kiss
I wasn’t jonesing for this invitation, but now that he’s offered it, there is only one way to RSVP.
“I would love to shop with you and make monkey bread,” I say, and his suggestion feels worlds better than any night with my ex.
And it feels just as good as dancing to 80s tunes, shopping with a drag queen, and making eggs withthisman.
Being with Harlan in any little way feels good.
That’s scary as hell, but wonderful too.
It’s making me think about timing, and steps, and possibilities.
About the future, and how to make it happen.
Risky thoughts I probably shouldn’t entertain, given my past. Given my heartbreak.
And yet, I am.
That means there’s monkey bread to make.
“Let’s hit it, handsome,” I say.
Harlan shoots me a sexy-and-sweet smile that melts my heart—and all the rest of me too.
So much for beingonlyteacher and student with him. His smile just crossed the don’t-break-me line of my heart.
“And we’re off to the store,” he says.
And maybe to something unknown.
***
How is it possible that grocery shopping can be fun?
Tell me that, universe.
I have never enjoyed shopping for food. Food buying is functional.
But shopping for groceries with Harlan is a blast.
I grab a box of brown sugar and waggle it. “Confession time—as a kid, did you or did you not sneak spoonfuls of sugar from the pantry?”
He scoffs. “Obviously. Brown sugar was my gateway drug into sweets.”
“Right? Same here. Never turned back. I’m convinced brown sugar ignited my lifetime love affair with yummy things.”
He sweeps the box into the shopping basket. “My words to live by: you can never have enough brown sugar, good tunes, and”—he stops to glance around the bougie gourmet store in Pacific Heights, then lowers his voice—“good sex.”
Mmm.
Those words rumble from his lips. They’re about more than the physical. “I like how you added an adjective before sex. It’simportant to specify. Because bad sex isnotworth having,” I say as we reach the spices, and I grab some cinnamon.
“You’re a woman after my own heart,” he says, and I want to shout,Yes. Yes, I am.
But I should slow down, so I zip my lips as he talks.
“If you’re going to do something, you might as well do it right. Football, yoga, parenting,” he says, listing the things that matter to, well, to us. “Friendships, musical taste, baking—pies in particular—and yes, sex.”
I swear, this man wants the same things I do. Feels the same things. Is this what a real connection is like? Maybe.
