Page 77 of Resisting Isaac

His porch light casts a golden halo around him, but this cowboy is no angel. I can see the filthy promises in his stare.

“I’d been working on that scene all week,” I mumble. “And the laughing, the letting go…your general ridiculous demeanor, actually helped.”

His hand slides up my forearm, sending a shiver in its wake. “Yeah?”

I nod. “I’m better at cooking than saying thank you.”

He leans down, his voice dropping like a secret. “You made me tamales.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me. I don’t think anyone exceptmy mom has ever cooked for me. Well, and Ivy, I guess. But only because I show up uninvited to dinner on occasion.”

Then he adds, “Bet they’ll taste even better if we eat them together. Also, you should probably come test out my couch.”

I snort. “Your couch?”

“Yeah. It’s a big fan of women with sharp tongues and perfect asses. I don’t typically have people over so it’s feeling neglected.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He dips his head, brushing his mouth along my cheek like he might kiss me but doesn’t.

“Idiot must be your type then, sweetheart.”

“I’ll stay for one,” I acquiesce.

He takes the container in one hand and my hand in the other. “Tamale or orgasm?”

Both sound pretty damn good, not that I’d tell him that.

“Cool it, cowboy.”

An hour later,the tamales are gone.

My belly is full and my heart is fluttering like a drunk hummingbird. Watching Isaac enjoy something I made did things to me I wasn’t expecting.

He sits beside me on the couch, long legs stretched out, arm resting behind me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s so relaxed, so grounded. I feel like I’ve spent my entire life wound up tight and he’s the first person who ever noticed—and didn’t try to fix me.

Just made space for me to breathe.

We’re watching some modern-day trending western serieswith decent dialogue and mediocre acting, but I’m not really paying attention. Not to the screen anyway.

His thumb is moving along my bare shoulder in slow, absent-minded circles. Like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Like he justneedsthe contact.

And I’m sinking. Deep.

Not just into his couch, but into him. Into the quiet hum of comfort that I’ve never let myself crave before.

I’ve been getting tired earlier and earlier lately.

I blink slowly. Try to sit up.

“I should?—”

“Nope.” His voice is low and final as his arm tightens around my shoulder. “You should relax.”

“I didn’t come here to crash on your couch.”