Page 6 of Butter My Biscuit

With one click of a button, the flame immediately catches on the faux logs.

“This is cheating. A gas fireplace.”

Once everything is set up, I turn to him. “I’m gonna change into my PJs. I’ll be right back.”

“Me too,” he says, unzipping his duffel.

My stomach growls as I remove my swimsuit, dry off, then change into my silk cami with matching sleep shorts.

When I walk into the living room, Harrison’s wearing dark gray joggers and nothing else as he flicks through the channels.

His eyes scan my body. “Should you be saving that sleepwear for your boyfriend?”

“He gets my birthday suit. But why? Do you think it makes me look hot?” I sit next to him and elbow him.

He bumps his body against mine. “If my girlfriend was wearing that around another man …”

“Oh, so you’re the jealous type?”

“When it comes tomywoman,you’dbetter believe it.”

He meets my eyes, and there is no doubt he means every damn word. But … I swallow hard, knowing there absolutely is not a deeper meaning in his words. Because there can’t be.

“What were you going to say outside?”

“Don’t remember. Remind me what we were talking about.” I reach forward and open the box, happy for the distraction.

“I don’t remember either,” he says.

But I have a feeling neither of us forgot as we slide our fingers under fat slices and take a bite.

“This is so good. Oh my God,” I say around a mouthful. My eyes widen.

Harrison laughs. “The place had incredible reviews. Like thousands. It’s a mom-and-pop shop, been around for forty years or something. Originated in Chicago, I think.”

“It’s”—I moan—“better than sex.”

He nearly chokes on the bite he’s swallowing. “That tells me you haven’t been with anyone worth remembering.”

“You’re right about that, but hopefully, that will change tomorrow. Cheers.”

We tap our pizza slices together and eat while we watch TV. When an episode ofYellowstoneends, Harrison asks me if I want any more.

“Nah. I’ve got a food baby,” I say, patting my belly.

He chuckles, then reaches forward, brushing his thumb close to the corner of my mouth. When he pulls away, there’s marinara on the end. And suddenly, it feels like we’re twelve again, having a slumber party at his parents’ house, eating pizza and watching rated-R movies. Neither of us would turn our heads during the sex scenes.

“I’m gonna miss the fuck outta you if you move away.”

I smile. “Now, don’t be getting all soft on me. You can always come visit.”

He stands and takes the rest of the pizza into the kitchen. I hear the fridge door open and close, and then he washes his hands. Immediately, I start yawning. I turn and look at the time on the microwave. It’s just past eight.

“I kinda wanna watch TV in bed. Wanna join me?”

He smiles. “You promise not to trample over that invisible line?”

“I don’t make promises to you that I can’t keep.”

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