I don’t fall asleep until six in the morning. Spending a solid hour replaying the kiss over and over in my brain.
He kissed me back.
It’s a truth that’s undeniable and sends bubbles of excitement exploding in my body.
Eventually, I do sleep, not waking up until one in the afternoon.
Zeppelin is gone from my side, the bed cold. Slipping out from under the covers I take in the now closed door and my clothes, folded neatly on that teal chair, my shoes on the ground beside it.
I get out of bed, using the attached master bath. Padding back into his room I pace for a couple of minutes, not sure how he’s going to act after last night. Blowing out a breath, I strip out of Lachlan’s clothes, tossing them in the hamper before pulling on my outfit from the night before. I put his sweatshirt back on. I tell myself it’s because I’m only wearing a tank top but it’s a lie. I want something of him close to me, to linger in the smell of him.
I crack open the door, peeking down the hall. The TV is on some news channel, bits and pieces echoing back to me. I pause, hoping to hear movement, some indication of where Lachlan is, but there’s nothing.
Pressing my lips together, I walk as quietly as I can. The back of his head greets me. He lays stretched out on the chaise part of a sectional couch in a pair of black sweatpants and a gray long sleeve shirt. He raises his arm, changing the channel. Zeppelin lies on the floor near a coffee table. He raises his big head, huffing at me, before using his paws as pillows once more.
“You’re up.” His voice is deep, gruff.
“Yeah.”
He glances at me standing there awkwardly, wringing my hands together.
“Hungry?”
I give him a surprised look. I wasn’t expecting that question.
I nod.
He gets off the couch, walking straight past me into the kitchen.
“Do you like fish tacos?” His eyes flick to me, waiting for an answer.
“Yeah, that would be great.”
He starts pulling ingredients out of his refrigerator and freezer, piling them on the counter. He turns his back to me, starting the oven. I slide my butt onto one of the barstools.
We’re both silent for a while as he cuts and chops stuff.
“I can’t cook,” I admit sheepishly.
He doesn’t look up from chopping some green leafy thing. “I know. You told me once.”
“Oh.”
Silence once more.
I can’t get a read on him, to know if he’s angry, upset, or trying to find the words to say something.
It takes about fifteen minutes before he slides two tacos in front of me. He didn’t make any for himself.
I pick up a taco, taking a bite. It’s delicious, the flavors exploding on my tongue. Before I can compliment him, he narrows his eyes on me.
“Last night can never happen again.”
I nearly choke on the bite of food as I swallow. I grab the bottle of water he holds out to me.
“It was inappropriate,” he continues, leaning his elbows on the counter. He regards me with a serious stare. “If something like that happens again you can’t call me.” He looks anguished saying the words, like they scrape against the walls of his throat. “I’m not some knight in shining armor. Do you have any idea how much trouble I could be in right now if anyone knew you were here?” He covers his face with his hands, letting out a groan before dropping them. “Let alone that we kissed.”
I don’t miss the way he phrases it. He doesn’t say that I kissed him.