What if you allow yourself to have feelings for him and then he decides to leave Greenbridge Academy on the next cool breeze? What if another job comes along and he decides to blow this popsicle stand? And you’d be left with what, exactly? Some happy memories of some good times in bed?
Oh, there would most certainly be some good times in bed. Those lips, the playful sparkle in his eye, the way he holds eye contact a little too long. You know he’d be intense and crazy hot in bed if you gave him the go-ahead.
“So sleepy,” I say as I tromp to the nearest side of the bed. Quinn is on the far side, lying on top of the covers, still fully dressed.
“See? I’m gonna stay just like this, on top of the covers, just like a friend would.”
His tone tells me he’s humoring me. I climb under the blankets into my soft sheets as he holds the duvet and blankets open for me. I yawn and say, “Why does it feel like you’re mocking me in the way you say that?” He covers my exhausted body with all the blankets and gives me another one of his expert squeezes.
With a chuckle he points out, “I’m just following your rules exactly as you laid them out. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Okay. You’re right,” I say, my eyes already closing as I lie there facing him, safely separated by many layers of clothes and blankets.
“Sleep now and I’ll make you my special French toast in the morning,” I hear him say as I drift off.
At these words I slightly wake up again. “No, don’t touch anything, I have a special recipe…I'm gonna make you cinnamon rolls.”
He makes an adorable yum-yum noise and tells me he loves cinnamon rolls.
I sigh and can no longer open my eyes when I tell him, “You are a cinnamon roll.”
Chapter Five
Mal
I wake early Tuesday morning to the smell of baking cinnamon buns and coffee, and the smell of someone clattering around in my kitchen.
My kitchen.
The one where I am the boss. I peek over at my phone on the nightstand and I have another cancellation. This one, an office to which I deliver muffins every week for their weekly staff meeting. This one is going to hurt a bit. I immediately call the client back, but it goes to voicemail.
I lie back in bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering what is going on. Maybe it’s not a trend. Maybe it’s all in my head. Shit happens. Things get canceled. I don’t need to take everything personally.
Besides, it’s time to put on a happy face. There’s a hot man in my kitchen, using my oven, and I’m not even bothered by it, not one little bit.
Normally if I hear Shelby rattling around in there before I get out of bed, I will throw on my robe and scrub in to take over the cooking and baking.
Maybe this is a good thing that I don’t want to completely take over. Maybe it’s a good thing my brain and my body are telling me what they need. You need someone to take care of you sometimes, and just let go.
I roll over and run my hand over the duvet and pillow where Quinn lay next to me last night. It’s still warm. It still smells like him, a little bit musky and like old books and earth.
I grin as I gaze out the window at my blooming forsythia, its tiny yellow petals as bright as my spirit right now. I have a project to do, I have a daughter who makes me proud, I love my life. And most of all, I have a friend.
Something catches my eye suddenly, and I now see a slip of paper peeking out from under the pillow next to me. I pull it out and unfold it.
There’s a poem Quinn has written on it. I sit up and read it, my hand over my mouth.
It’s a dirty limerick and I’m laughing so hard that it summons Quinn from the kitchen, a mug of coffee in his hand.
“I wasn’t sure how you like it,” he says, handing the steaming mug to me.
“That’s perfect,” I say.
He watches me intently while I take my first sip of coffee.
“What are you thinking about over there?” I ask him.
Quinn glances up at the ceiling and bites his lip. “You don’t want to know.”