99 Percent Mine

My stomach falls down an elevator shaft. Those words, spoken aloud in his voice, crackle through my synapses, and right now, I’ve never been more alive. I am heartbeat and full lungs. If you were mine. What a glorious thought to cross his mind; I never imagined it would.

“What else would you do?” I’ve got that husky voice he likes.

The animal in him is honest with me. “Everything. If you were mine, I’d do everything.” Our gold bubble locks shut, and a little universe fills it. The possibilities are infinite.

“I have a big imagination. Could you be more specific?” I put my hand on the side of his neck and stroke down to the hard bar of his collarbone. His skin is hot satin. His pulse nudges me.

Mine, mine, mine. One thousand percent mine until the end of time. He looks like he agrees.

“Everything you wanted or needed, I’d do it.” Amazing how he can keep it clean, but it feels so dirty. That’s the thing about good boys.

“I want and need a lot.”

A big white smile now. “No kidding. Well, I’m a hard worker.”

I need to get to the reason we’re here tonight. It’s so obvious. We’re about to lay some ground rules before we go home and demolish each other.

“So, are we having our talk?” When he says nothing, I gesture with my fingert

ips. “The bubble is officially in place.”

He looks to one side, like it’s something he’d be able to see. He’s always gone along with my imaginary scenarios. When we make eye contact again, he sees the affection in me. But what I’ve said has tripped him up and he can’t find his words.

I try to lead him into it. “It’s pretty clear what we need to talk about.”

He sits up straight and lets out a breath. There’s a worried pinch to his brow and an awkwardness in his hands as he straightens his drink coaster. “I wanted to talk to you about taking the wall down between the kitchen and the living room.”

I’m good at automatically laughing when I’m disappointed, and I do it now. He probably knows that little tic. I pick up my glass and it’s empty. “Okay, we didn’t need to go out to talk about that. The answer’s no.”

The charade slipped into real, and I felt like we were on a date. That maybe I could be his. Thank goodness he’s not looking at me anymore; I’m hot and embarrassed. He’s got a pen and he’s drawing on the back of his coaster. It’s a floor plan of the cottage.

“Buyers want open-plan living. These older cottages were always built as small individual rooms, so they could be heated. But the walls block the flow and light. I think this wall needs to go.” He scribbles across a line to show me.

“That’s the fireplace. Where will the new owner hang up their bras?”

“The clothesline. This wall isn’t a supporting wall. If we just take it out, the light comes in from three sides. When buyers walk in, they’ll see all the way to the back door, and they’ll think it’s a big, bright place.” Tom the professional is talking now. “The flooring will all match, front door to back, and there’ll be a sense of flow.”

“I know what you’re saying, but no. That fireplace is a selling point.” I’m sitting in a business meeting. What on earth did I expect? “I can’t believe you’d even ask me this.”

“Even if a buyer did want a fireplace, that one has got serious issues. The bricks are collapsing inward. I got the quote from the chimney guy. It’ll cost a fortune to restore. We’d have to demolish it and rebuild it.”

“You could do that, I bet. It’s just bricks. You just said you’d do everything. That’s what I want.”

“Then I’d have to redo the roofing, replaster, paint. I take it out, it solves so many problems.” He looks like he’s beginning to panic. I can’t be reasoned with.

“What does Jamie say?”

“He says he trusts my judgment.” He assesses my face. “Have I . . . hurt your feelings?”

Either I’m terribly transparent, or he’s perceptive. I think I know the answer from a lifetime together. He can practically feel this little tight lump in the base of my throat.

“No.” I frown at him until he’s partly convinced. “I’m just surprised that we’re two-thirds of our way toward a wall being knocked down, and you’re trying to flirt me into agreeing.”

“Flirt you,” he protests, a guilty flush on his cheekbones. “I’m not. I’m just recommending the best option for your sale.” He thinks for a moment on how to sell it to me.

“Try to imagine you’re waking on the couch in the living room after a nap. It’s late Sunday afternoon and I’m in the kitchen cutting up potatoes on the marble countertop. Darce is grouchy after sleep and needs feeding.”

“Talking about floor plans is not high on my list of kinks.” I look up at the ceiling. “Actually . . . Keep talking.”