Casual. Laid-back. No pressure.
I just wish someone would explain that to my tingling lips and racing heart.
Ansel
She kissed me. Again.
But this time, she was sober.
Strong and intoxicating, the power of her kiss was enough to pull me and my body right into action without any trouble.
I wanted to ask her if she felt it too.
If she is just as high off me as I am her.
I wanted to ask her how she can still be in a relationship with another man when there is this undeniable connection between us. This strong, palpable magnetic pull that seems to vibrate from my body to hers. From my heart to hers.
But in a matter of seconds, the spell was broken and her guard was back up, and I had to revert my focus to damage control. Her mind was already off to the races, most likely spinning with uncertainty and guilt and doubt, but I refused to let her fall into a tailspin.
I don’t know what this is, but I know it isn’t some flimsy attraction that would end after a careless night of sex.
I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime.
Whatever this is, it’s different. It’s special. It’s fucking real.
But Indy isn’t ready to face all of that.
All I can do right now is avoid doing something that will push her away…and wait. Wait for her to see what I do, for her to realize the magic between us isn’t going away.
Luckily, I was able to do just that. After that fucking incredible kiss, instead of saying all of the things I really wanted to say, I started talking about art again and took her to see my favorite Monet.
She thawed out around the edges, and the more I teased and joked with her, the more she smiled and laughed, and eventually, we were back to being us.
When the museum announced it would be closing in ten minutes, I convinced Indy I could feed her the best fucking tacos she’s ever tasted from Tacombi, and she didn’t hesitate to go along with the plan that led us back to my house. Eating takeout tacos.
“Shit,” she mutters, and I glance away from a rerun of Parks and Rec to find Indy swiping away a blob of sour cream from her shirt.
A laugh bubbles up from my throat, and she tosses a glare in my direction.
“Don’t say a word.”
“I didn’t say anything.” I bite back my smile and lift a taco-less hand in the air, raising my proverbial white flag.
“You want to, though,” she retorts with a giggle and a scowl. “You’re probably already thinking about what you can use for a makeshift bib.”
Bingo. I’ve already spotted the extra napkins on the coffee table.
I grin, and she nudges my arm with her elbow. “Just forget this happened, okay?”
“Just like that time you spat bacon all over my kitchen?” I tease. “Should I forget it just like that?”
“I’m ignoring you.” Another nudge to my arm, only a little harder this time, and Indy grabs one of the napkins on the table and slips it into her shirt like a bib. “There, is that better?”
“Perfect.” I grin. “But it might be smart if we invested in actual bibs. I mean, surely, that would prevent a lot of ruined shirts…”
“Shut up.” She rolls her eyes on a giggle but focuses back on her tacos.
It doesn’t take long before we’ve finished our takeout and the inevitable food coma has set in. We lounge lazily on the couch, and Indy flips through the television stations in a fruitless search to find something to watch that isn’t a reality show or commercials.
I fucking hate television, but when it comes to Indy, I’m finding I’ll do just about anything if it means spending more time with her.
“Wait a minute…” Indy pauses, and I glance in her direction to find her pointing toward the bench by the window. “What is that?”
“A painting.”
It’s her painting. The one she painted for me in my studio and called my rainbow.
She squints her eyes. “Why is that out here?”
“Because I like it.”
“Oh my god.” Indy groans. “Anyone who walks into your house can see it.”
“So?” I don’t bother to tell her that she has nothing to worry about. No one but she and Bram come inside my house.
She scowls and stands to her feet, striding right toward the painting. Once the canvas is gripped between her fingers, she turns toward me and raises it into the air. “You need to hide this somewhere.”
I chuckle at her ridiculousness. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” she refutes. “A closet, under your bed, the trash. For the love of God, put this thing away.”
“Don’t even think about putting that in the trash, Indy.”
She raises a challenging brow. “It’s my painting, and I’ll do whatever I want with it.”
“Actually, it’s my painting.”