“The Sawmill. It’s supposed to be really good,” she says, returning to the room. I smile as she goes into her closet, completely unaware of how the sight of her naked, wearing only a thong and my floating-heart necklace affects me. “Did I say it’s historic?”
She steps into a black skirt and I watch as she pulls a long-sleeved, faded red tee over her head. The vintage fabric hugs her braless torso in a way I want to. I can’t help myself anymore. I go to her and pull her against my chest.
“I love you,” I say, covering her mouth with mine. As always, she seems to melt.
She is such an amazing combination to me. This tiny firecracker, strong as a flint, able to survive the shit her asshole ex-husband had put her through. Yet when I kiss her, her entire body becomes fluid in my hands. It’s very distracting.
I make sure she’s standing before I completely release her to put on my shirt. Her nipples are erect as she grabs my fleece jacket off a chair and pulls it around her body. It’s enormous on her, but she tucks her nose inside and inhales deeply.
“I’m keeping this when you go back,” she says. “I might sleep in it.”
Stepping into my jeans, her bedroom eyes have me fighting the return of that erection. “So you want to go to the Sawmill or not?”
“Yes,” she laughs. “Bacon.”
“There is no applewood-smoked bacon,” I say as we study the menu.
The Sawmill restaurant is a traditional dive. Its exposed-wood interior is covered in tools of the logging trade, and the pages of our menus are covered in plastic. Still, I’m no snob. All the breakfast options look great to me, but I know how Mel’s pregnancy has her craving specific things. I’d already been sent in search of Manhattan Key Lime pie the day after Christmas, and we have someone known as “Aunt Bea” on our speed-dial in case of emergencies.
She sighs. “It’s okay. Regular bacon will do.”
Our eyes meet, and the small, black-velvet box in my pocket feels hot as a coal waiting to be taken out and presented to her. I want to propose now, to claim her as mine, like nothing I’d ever wanted before, but I also want it to be special. So I wait.
“All bacon is wood-smoked, right?” I say as the waiter returns. “And Sawmill benedict? They’ve substituted gravy for hollandaise.”
A little laugh escapes her throat. “Let’s get that gravy on the side,” she says. “And an omelet and a scrambler. And a juice and keep that coffee coming.”
The waiter nods and leaves, and with a chuckle, I gesture for her to come around to my side of the table. As always, she’s quick to comply. Sliding in next to me, she slips her arms around my neck and kisses my lips.
“I love you,” she whispers. “Last night was…”
“Screaming Os, I’m the king and all that?”
I love the sound of her laughter. “I have never—” Our eyes meet and her tone drops. She pretend-coughs, adjusting her story in an amusing fashion. “You are always all of those things,” she purrs.
My elbow is bent on the top of the bench behind her. I study her face a moment. “So this is where you want to stay. In this little town.”
Our permanent residence is the one roadblock to our union we keep stumbling over.
“How can you even ask me that?” She turns, putting both elbows on the table as she lifts her coffee cup to her lips. “Living at the beach is a dream come true for most people.”
“We don’t have to sell your house,” I repeat my argument, smiling at her cute stubbornness, as if adjusting her position can keep my words out. I move my hand to her waist and then under her shirt, spreading my palm over her bare stomach, thinking about what’s growing there. “We can keep it, and you can come here as often as you like for vacations or whatever.”
She lowers her cup and leans back, placing her hand on top of mine still covering her flat stomach. Our physical familiarity is another thing I love about her. She’s unfazed by my hand against her skin. It’s as if every one of my touches is not only
welcome, but expected.
“We might as well quit now,” she exhales. “If we can’t even get through this impasse, I have no idea what makes us think we can handle more serious issues.”
I can’t help a laugh, and my hand goes from her stomach to her chin. I lift her delicate face and cover her small mouth with mine, tasting the bitter almost-chocolate flavor of the coffee as I part her lips, our tongues lightly touching. I want nothing more than to carry her back to that pretty, miniscule condo of hers and fuck her twenty ways from Sunday. Show her just how strong our love is.
Releasing her face, I look into her now-darkened eyes. “Choosing a home base is actually a pretty big decision,” I say. “I think if we can decide on a place where we’ll both be happy, it’s proof we can handle anything.”
She’s ready to relent. I know by her expression my kiss has left her willing to do anything I ask. God, I love her so much.
“Derek.” When she says my name that way, I can’t tell if she’s aware I’ll do anything she asks. “Sloan asked me to leave here. And it was the most unhappy decision I’ve ever made in my life. I never want to make that mistake again.”
Her words sting, but I understand her fears. I saw what she survived. My fingers trace a light path down her cheek as I exhale. “For one, I’m not Sloan,” I say, keeping my voice gentle. “And for two, we don’t have to make this decision today.”