Page 95 of Fragile Lives

“I can whip us up some breakfast.” I shrug.

“From what?” he asks, laughing. “I have beer and bourbon in the fridge.”

“Hmm, good point.” I lean against the headboard and pull the comforter over my body because if he sees me naked, we will not be getting any food, and I could use a break. To beclear, my coochie could. The man is insatiable and, quite frankly, not small. Far from it, and by day three of constant shagging, I can sure use a break. Like maybe a warm bath with a gallon of lidocaine in it. “Let’s order breakfast, but we should go shopping after to stock your fridge and pantry.”

His brows shoot up to the sky. “You want to stock my pantry?”

“Why do you make it sound so dirty?”

His laughter is light and carefree—I love the sound of new Stephan. He pulls me into his embrace and rests his chin on the top of my head. “Okay, we can go to the store later.”

My face nestles into the left side of his chest, right where he used to have an empty spot, now filled with new ink.

“Did I tell you how much I love it?” I give it a quick kiss.

“What?” He looks down at me.

“My name on your skin.”

“How do you know it’s your name?” He bites his lip, trying to suppress a smile, threatening to burst.

“C’mon,” I chuckle. “Why else would a person in their right mind put a damn ginger squirrel above their nipple?”

His body shakes with laughter. “I wasn’t in my right mind. But honestly, no self-respecting tattoo artist would ever put the name of his partner on his body—it’s like a call to the universe to deliver a painful breakup.”

“Seriously?” I cackle at this professional superstition—everyone has those.

“No jokes. We don’t do names on the body, and I made it a rule in my parlors even if anyone asks for it—I don’t want that shit on my conscience.”

I giggle. “It’s so absurd.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, “but it’s true. That’s why we always find a way to find the right representation for the person we want on our skin.”

It sounds so dirty…but so right.

“A squirrel?” I lift a brow because c’mon, couldn’t he find a lion, or I don’t know, a sexy panther.

“That’s my little squirrel.” He leans to kiss my nose. “It’s because I knew you as Squirrel even before I knew you. Does that make sense?”

I look in his eyes and find the truth I’ve been searching for. “It actually does.”

The smile he gives me is heart-stopping and mouthwatering, and I just know my coochie will cry later.

“C’mere,” I pull his face to mine, “I need a kiss.”

He obeys with a laugh. “You are a very insatiable squirrel.”

An hour later, we order breakfast and eat at the small table in the sunroom. It’s a very vintage-looking place with old-fashioned flower curtains and wooden stools. I’m a little surprised he decided to keep it—it’s so not his style. To think of it, the whole house is a mix of styles. His room is very futuristic, and the living room and the kitchen are as well, but some areas still hold that feeling of old times. And I absolutely love it. I think after his bed, this little table is my second favorite place.

By the time the clock hits two p.m., we drive to the grocery store. We don’t have a list because he needs literally everything. He wasn’t joking when he said he only has liquor in his house. Even though for the past three days, I haven’t seen him touch or even look at the bottles once. I don’t think alcoholism is healthy, but in his case, I’m sure he had a reason for it so I don’t push (much)—he used it to dull the pain. Hopefully, he’ll have less of that now, so the need will subside eventually.

At the grocery store, I get everything I can get my hands on and drop it in the cart he’s pushing with the ever-present smile of a jolly fool on his too-handsome face.

We’ve got groceries for at least two weeks. And since we haven’t talked about how long I’ll be staying, I figured I’ll leave when I start feeling the tension.

“Oh, look at that!” I point at the plates with ugly flowers that sort of match the curtains in the breakfast nook of his house. “They’re adorable!” I rush to grab a few.

“They’re ugly,” he deadpans.