“He always does what she tells him to do,” Grady admits with a shrug. “She’ll probably show up with drapes or something when you least expect it, now that she knows what your windows look like.”
She lets out a laugh as she takes hot cocoa mix and a bag of marshmallows out of the cabinet and sets them on the counter. She shows me the bag of mini marshmallows. “I got the little ones because I know how you like them,” she says, and her cheeks turn a little pinker.
“How did you remember that?” I ask as I sit down on a barstool and rest my elbows on the island in the center of the kitchen. “It has been over twenty years.”
“I remember everything about that time,” she says almost shyly. “You used to eat gummy worms, but the red ones were your favorite, even though they all taste the same.”
“They do not all taste the same,” I rush to correct her. I hold up one finger in preparation to lecture, but she reaches out and grabs it, halting my tirade as she gives it a squeeze. “Whatever,” I finally say because all my wits have left me. And gummy worms and winning arguments are no longer important.
The kettle on the stove whistles, and she pours hot chocolate mix into two mugs, then fills them with hot water. She tosses a pile of mini marshmallows into one of the mugs and slides it toward me. “You’re going to get that all over your nose,” she warns. “And I’m going to have to laugh at you.”
She grabs her own mug, along with a couple of paper towels and a small tea towel from a drawer, and motions for me to follow her back into the living room. She sets her cup on a paper towel on the coffee table—also courtesy of Mom—and she sits down. Her dress, the same one she wore to church, rides up her legs so I can see the middle of her thigh. She doesn’t tug it down. I scrub a hand down my nose and look everywhere but at the edge of her lacy thigh-high stocking, which I can almost glimpse.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. Her brow furrows.
“Nothing,” I say as I take a sip of my hot chocolate. The foam from the marshmallows touches my nose, but I don’t wipe it away. “Why do you ask?”
“You had a funny look on your face.” She grins when she sees my nose. She reaches over and wipes it clean with her thumb, and then wipes her thumb on the tea towel.
“Are you calling me funny-looking?” I cry in mock outrage.
“Well, if the shoe fits…”
I go to set my mug on the coffee table, and she quickly moves a paper towel under it for a coaster. “I’d rather be funny-looking than funny-smelling,” I retort.
Her mouth falls open. “I am not funny-smelling!”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I say, and I grab for her. She giggles as I press her back against the arm of the sofa, and then I start to sniff across her neck and shoulders. She’d discarded the little sweater she had been wearing earlier today, so her arms are bare. I lift one and pretend to sniff. She suddenly looks outraged.
“Get away from my armpits, Grady Parker!” she shouts, but she’s laughing as I start to tickle her.
Suddenly, she freezes under me, right at the same time that I realize I’m lying on top of her. She’s pressed against the couch cushions, and I’m stretched out along the length of her. I’m cradled between her thighs, and I can feel the heat of her through my slacks.
I hold myself up on my elbows and look down at her. “This is why I didn’t want to come inside,” I say. I clear my throat, because I suddenly sound like an old man who swallowed rocks.
“Why is this bad?” she asks as she reaches up and brushes a lock of hair from my forehead. “This doesn’t feel bad,” she says quietly.
“That’s the problem.” I lay my forehead against her chest and take a deep breath. “You’re so fucking pretty that I can’t breathe when I look at you. It’s always been that way, ever since we were teenagers.” I lift my face to look into her eyes. “And then I get to smell you. And touch you. And feel you under me.”
She lifts her hips a little.
“Sorry,” she squeaks out when she realizes what she did. “Something’s poking me.”
“That would be my dick,” I say.
“No,” she says with a grimace. “It’s something hard.”
I wink. “Again, that would be my dick.”
“I think it’s your keys, Grady,” she says. She lifts her leg, and I shift into a more comfortable spot. “That did it. Thanks. It’s gone.”
“Well, the rest of it is my dick,” I say.
“Then I am a very lucky lady.” She waggles her brows at me.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to sleep with you. Not today.”
Suddenly all of her playfulness is gone. She goes stiff as a board beneath me. “Then you probably should get off me.”