17

A TOOTHbrUSH WOULD BE HELPFUL

QUINN

Sitting up, I scrub at my eyes and try to shake off the drowsiness. The taut fabric of Jack’s couch beneath me reminds me that I’m not in my bed. Stretching my arms above my head, I run my fingers through my messy hair and glance around me. Without Jack’s and Sienna’s voices echoing through it, the room feels unnaturally large and silent.

The clock on my phone tells me I’ve slept well past noon, which is so out of character for me. I can’t remember the last time I slept so soundly for so long. Whatever medicine Jack gave me last night knocked me right the fuck out.

Probably because pairing sleeping meds with wine is not the best idea, but I don’t regret the decision. I’ve needed to turn my brain off like that for a while now.

The front door opens and I hear Sienna’s chatter before she and Jack come into view. He has brown paper grocery bags in each hand, and he doesn’t seem to notice that I am awake, because he heads straight for the kitchen.

My eyes are heavy and my steps are unsteady as I stumble through the entryway and over to the coffee maker. “Please tell me there’s coffee,” I grumble, taking Jack by surprise.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

Sienna kicks her legs excitedly when she sees me, but I pause the half a step I’ve taken toward her when Jack’s cat takes me by surprise, weaving a figure eight around my ankles. She rivals Sienna’s demand for my attention in the form of insistent purring.

“Milo, what the fu—frick?”

I stifle my laughter at Jack’s censoring of himself and bend down to scratch the top of her head. She leans into my touch and he just stares, obviously dumbfounded.

When I’m upright again, Milo darts out of the room. “What?”

“I’m lucky if he lets me pet him once a month, and even then it’s because I’ve taken too long to feed him and he’s trying to bribe me.”

I zero in on the fact that he says he —as if Milo is a boy when not long ago he told me the cat was a girl.

I am nowhere near awake enough to unravel whatever that ball of yarn is, but I can’t stop the feelings that arise at the thought of Jack referring to me as his girl.

Because that’s definitely what happened, and he very poorly tried to cover it up.

I decide to change the subject. “Grocery day?”

I take Sienna from him, and I hope she doesn’t somehow sense that it’s because I’m using her as a form of armor. I feel less awkward—less anxious—when I’m holding her.

I shift her onto my hip and reach for the coffee pot with my free hand. The smell hits me in the face as I measure out scoops into the filter.

“I had big plans to make breakfast before you woke up, but we slept half the day too and breakfast turned into lunch,” he shrugs, tossing a loaf of ciabatta onto the island.

I nuzzle my forehead against Sienna’s causing her to coo. “This pretty girl must have been all worn out from trick-or-treating to have slept for so long.”

“Well, we didn’t sleep quite as long as you did.” Obviously . The half grin, half smirk on his face nearly takes my breath away.

Sienna’s tiny mouth stretches wide with a yawn, her arms moving to wrap around my neck as she squirms against me. The coffee pot gurgles to life. As much as I want to wait for it to finish and have the time to savor a hot cup, she demands immediate attention. Rubbing her eyes and releasing a whiny grunt, she lets me know she’s been awake exactly long enough and is ready for her nap.

“Ready to go night night, pretty girl?” I readjust her on my hip and snuggle her closer. She lays her head on my shoulder in response.

As we start to walk away, Jack's hands freeze midair, holding a carton of eggs. “You’re not working today. I’ll put her down for her nap.”

I wave him off and continue toward the stairs. “As if I need to be on the clock to want to spend time with this sweet baby.”

Sienna’s eyelids droop quickly and she’s out like a light within a few minutes of being rocked. After gently placing her in her crib, I quietly close the door and return to the kitchen.

Jack is slicing through the ciabatta with a serrated bread knife and the familiarity of our time together last night and this morning almost bowls me over.

Aside from Kruz, I haven’t been close to many people. The thought of forming relationships has always filled me with dread, likely because my psyche is convinced no one could ever truly want me.

Thanks, parental figures.

And thanks, in-depth study of psychology, for my astounding self awareness.

The ease with which our connection formed is both surprising and overwhelming.

“That was fast.”

Sure fucking was.

But I know he’s not referring to what’s on my mind. “Baby girl crashed hard.” I take my place next to him and turn the stove on, cracking eggs in the pan he’s already put oil in.

“How did you sleep last night?” He pulls a toaster from one of the bottom cabinets and places it on the counter, plugging it in before dropping a slice of bread in each slot.

“Much better than I have been lately once you helped get me there.” My face burns hot as the words pass my lips, but if he notices the way it sounded to me he doesn’t say anything. Maybe his mind isn’t as far in the gutter as mine is. “Thank you,” I add.

“Happy to help.” I don’t miss the way the corner of his mouth twitches.

We fall into a rhythm with one another making brunch as the afternoon sun filters through the kitchen window.

This seemingly mundane task of cooking together is more than just making food—there is something in the way we are dancing around one another, both physically and in every other way.

I can't help but wonder if there’s anything I do that causes him to feel the same desire as I feel when I see his muscles flexing under his fitted button-up shirt. I'm curious if he notices all the different ways I look at him with longing; whether it's when he's with Sienna, snuggling my dog, or just doing things around the house.

I want him in so many different fucking overwhelming ways.

He is so hard to read at times, and part of me feels like a silly schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher.

Is that all this is?

Before last night, I couldn’t imagine the way I feel ever being anything other than unrequited.

I’m reaching for plates on a shelf inside the cabinet that’s just out of my reach when I feel him step in behind me. His hand goes to my hip as he reaches over my head to grab them for me.

The act seems to flip a switch for him just as much as it does for me because once he places the plates on the counter in front of me we just stand there.

Frozen.

His hand still on my body.

I place mine over it and pat just once, a friendly gesture to let him know it’s fine.

So fine.

He smells like bergamot, and lavender, and something I can’t quite put my finger on but I want to drown in it.

But when I spin out of his grip, instead of moving away he cages me in against the counter.

There is a pained look on his face like it’s taking all of his willpower to hold back from doing what it is that he really wants to do.

This should all feel awkward.

Inappropriate .

But it doesn’t.

He does something to me that I can’t explain. Maybe it’s my daddy issues , the fact that he’s so much older than I am and so caring.

Regardless of the reason, I don’t want him to pull away so I return the favor by placing a hand on either of his hips—a silent acceptance of whatever this is between us.

And then I come to my senses, realizing that if this man tries to kiss me right now, I haven’t even brushed my teeth today.

Great.

Fuck .

I give him a quick squeeze and dip under his arm.

There is a strong possibility that I have ruined the prospect of there ever being an us, but I’m not about to put my lips on his—or anywhere near him—while my mouth tastes and feels a lot like I’ve chewed on an absolutely rank wool sweater.

“Coffee?” I ask awkwardly, shuffling to pull two mugs out and place them on the countertop.

He clears his throat uncomfortably and gives me a weak, tilted smile that causes my chest to ache painfully. “Yeah, sure.”