MICAH
Bzzt. Bzzt.
Peyton twitches in my arms, then relaxes. Her chest rises and falls in a steady, rhythmic tempo. I nestle more into her neck and curl my arm tighter around her midsection. Hold her closer as I drift back to sleep.
Bzzt. Bzzt.
I shake half awake. Peyton groans, twists in my arms, snuggles closer to my chest and burrows her face near the base of my throat. My leg drapes hers as our lower limbs tangle. I draw her impossibly closer. Kiss her hair. Cradle her against the length of my torso. Her warm breath at the hollow of my throat soothes and settles me back to sleep.
Bzzt. Bzzt.
Peyton grumbles against my chest and I tighten my hold on her.
Bzzt. Bzzt.
“Who is that?” I complain, my words like sandpaper.
Peyton shifts in my arms and I open my eyes. I look down at her as she peers up. Inch down to press my lips to hers. Her phone buzzes on the coffee table again. For the umpteenth time.
She stretches an arm behind her and slaps the table until it lands on her phone. When the screen lights, she bolts upright. “Oh, shit.”
If I wasn’t awake a minute ago, I am now. “What’s wrong?” I scrub a hand down my face and blink several times to shake off the sleep.
“It’s after eight.” I stare at her and patiently wait for the reason why this is a bad thing. That was the best sleep I have gotten in weeks. No sense in complaining. “In the morning. As in, I stayed the night at your house.”
“This is a bad thing?”
Unlocking her phone, she opens her text messages and starts typing. “No. Yes. No.”
My hand draws lazy circles on her lower back. “Take a minute to wake up. I’m sure everything is fine.”
She drops the phone in her lap, then gives me her profile. Stares at the ceiling as her weight presses into my side. “It is. But Reese is freaking out because I didn’t come home or let him know I was staying out.”
I wiggle to the cushion edge and rise from the couch. Head toward the kitchen for water before I say something irrational about their close relationship. The water staves off an inkling of my jealousy. So, I drink more.
Last thing I need to do after sleeping with Peyton in my arms all night is to piss her off. My unjustifiable green monster needs to sit the fuck down and chill the fuck out. I have no right to be jealous over a friendship she’s had for decades.
Peyton saunters into the kitchen, steps up behind me, and wraps her arms around my waist. Her arms crisscross over my chest as she presses her palms flat to my pecs. God, I love the feel of her body against mine. No awkwardness or mismatched placement. She fits every angle and curve as if meant to be there.
“He’s not mad because I stayed out,” she whispers along the curve of my neck. “Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t lying in a hospital. We usually text or leave notes when staying out late. He was worried. That’s all.”
My rational brain processes this and shakes a finger. Don’t be a dick. They are just friends.
I rotate my head and drop an innocent kiss on her lips. “Glad you have someone who worries. Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry.” Her arms form parallel lines on my stomach and constrict. “All this between us…” Warm lips trail up my neck and my eyes roll shut. Fuck, every touch Peyton gives feels amazing. “Is new. For me and you.”
I twist in her grip and wind my arms around her. Drop my lips to hers, but don’t deepen the kiss. When we break apart, I tuck loose tendrils of her hair behind her ear. Study her freshly woken features—hair in a messy topknot, pillow crease lines on her cheek, brows a bit shifty, eyes bright but not yet alert.
If I woke up next to her each morning, it would be a great life.
I kiss the tip of her nose. “Gonna go brush my teeth.” Her eyes widen as a hand covers her mouth. As if she just thought about her own morning breath. “Probably have extra toothbrushes in the bathroom.” She lifts a brow. “From the dentist goody bags.” I kiss her forehead, wrap her hand in mine, and lead her to the bathroom.
After we get the bathroom to ourselves a moment, I dig out a spare toothbrush. We hover near the sink, squeeze paste from the tube, and brush simultaneously. And it’s so bizarre. How scrubbing our teeth together is the most normal my life has felt in a long time.
“Confession,” I say as we enter the main space of the house. “Although I fail at cooking most foods, breakfast is not one of them. So, you’re in luck.” She laughs as I guide her to the barstools. “Have a seat, hellcat. I’ll whip us up something. Promise it’ll be edible.”
Peyton parks herself at the breakfast bar, props her elbows on the counter, and rests her chin in her hands. Her violet eyes sparkle as they follow my every move. And damn, I love how good it feels to have her eyes rake over my backside. To survey my body without shame. Heat my skin and drive me wild.
From the fridge, I collect eggs, milk, cheese, and butter. Sausage links from the freezer and the loaf of bread on the island. I set a pan on the stove, crank the heat to medium-low and add some oil. Next, I crack eggs in the bowl, add milk and whip them together. All the while, Peyton watches me in mesmerized silence.
Domesticity has never been something I pictured in my life. Mom and Dad have it down to a science. A natural flow whenever they are together. Synergy. Anyone in their presence sees it, feels it. Obviously it exists, but I never considered I’d have the same simplicity in my own life. Not even with Rochelle.
But as Peyton’s eyes follow me around the kitchen, watch me season and mix and flip, my mind considers new possibilities.
I drop bread in the toaster, then add shredded cheese to scrambled eggs as the sausage finishes. After I grab plates from the cabinet, I fish a butter knife from the drawer. The toaster clicks and the bread pops up. I butter, then cut the slices in half and add them to the plates. Followed by the eggs and sausage.
“Your breakfast, m’lady.” I deposit a plate in front of Peyton and hand her a fork. “Coffee, milk or juice?”
“Coffee, please.”