“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
“What a nice time we had tonight.”
He kisses the top of my head. “I’m glad you liked it. I almost had a fucking nervous breakdown.”
“You could’ve ordered takeout,” I giggle. “Or I could’ve brought something.”
He stills, his heartbeat loud against my ear. “I wanted to do something for you. I wanted you to feel special, to know I wanted to make you feel happy.”
“Damn it, Landry. Don’t go getting all swoony.”
“Why?” he laughs. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Not when you look like you,” I giggle. “That makes you impossible to forget.”
“Good. Unforgettable is what I was going for.”
“You gave me a taste of something tonight,” I whisper. “I’ll never forget how it felt to sit at the table with you and Huxley. It was so welcoming, like I belonged in this greater plan.”
“You do. You belong here.”
I look away. I don’t want him to see the emotion in my eyes because he’s too good. He’ll capitalize. He doesn’t miss a thing.
Is he right? Do I belong with him? Or is this just a really good time in between seasons?
“Hey,” he says, reaching forward and sitting his wine glass on the coffee table. He takes mine from my hand and places it next to his. In one swift motion, he lifts me onto his lap sideways. “Your shoulders just got all tense.”
“That happens,” I say.
“Not with me. I don’t want you stressed with me. I thought you were enjoying yourself.”
“I was. I am,” I correct myself. “I just can’t shut my brain off.”
“You overthink everything. I think your brain is the only part of you I have a love-hate relationship with.”
I press my lips together. “So you think you have a solid love relationship with the rest of my body?”
“Uh-huh. I love every,” he says, his fingertip touching the center of my lips, “fucking,” the pad of his finger trails down my chin, in between my breasts, “thing,” it descends across my stomach and landing between my thighs, “about you. And I’m certain your body loves me just as much.”
His palm sits on my pubic bone, his hand cupping my vagina. I shiver, flexing my hips for more contact. He laughs. “See? I’m right.”
“Maybe.”
“Whatever,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I just have to win over your brain now. I tried tonight to convince it I was more than an athlete. I even borrowed my broth—” He cringes.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“You borrowed your what?”
He looks at the ceiling.
“Talk, Landry.”
“I borrowed my brother’s kid. Or stepkid. Or whatever. I borrowed Hux,” he gulps.
“You did what?”