“Ass,” I tell him around my mouthful of food.
“You wear jealousy well, Ms. Darling. Makes you all flushed and breathy.”
“Deluded ass,” I amend. When he won’t stop grinning, I poke his chest. “So why is crumble so special?”
All the happy smugness falls off his face, and regret pangs inside my chest. His gaze drifts off as he speaks. “My mum used to make it for me as a special treat. The only crumble I’ve found that tastes even close to my mum’s is made by Mary, who owns a bake shop here. I always order a batch when I come to town.”
I want to ask him about his family and why his mom doesn’t make him crumble instead. But agitation has settled on him like a heavy blanket he’s trying to shrug off. I can’t bring myself to pick at that scab.
With an ease I don’t feel, I take the bowl from his unresisting hand and help myself to another bite of crumble. It’s rich and buttery, crisp and spicy.
Kind of like Gabriel himself.
“Now then,” I tell him around the mouthful, “you’ve completely lost points for being Team Jacob.”
He snorts.
“So you’ll have to redeem yourself.” I wave the spoon at him threateningly. “Who was better for Buffy? Angel or Spike?”
Gabriel takes the spoon and bowl back. “Angel is a teen girl’s dream, all sad sighs and mental angst. Spike is for when she grows up and realizes satisfaction is hers for the taking.”
My grin slowly unfurls. “You, sir, are a romantic.”
He glances at me in affront. “I just said all that romantic babble was childish.”
“Only a romantic would put so much thought into that answer.”
“You annoy me,” he grumbles without heat. “And for the record, I was lying about Jacob. I think they’re both prats.”
I laugh and laugh, loving the way he eventually nudges me with his elbow. I get myself a bowl of crumble and give him another serving, then settle down next to him to watch Buffy.
I feel like I’m sixteen again, in my parents’ basement with the hottest guy in school. Only I’m on thousand-dollar sheets in a million-dollar bus, driving through Europe. And Gabriel is no teen boy.
His long, lean body sprawls across the bed in complete repose, and I have to ignore that fact or I’ll do something rash like slide my hand down his firm abdomen and slip it into his loose sweats.
By the time he reaches for the remote and turns off the TV, I’m a freaking mess. My mouth is dry, and my heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest.
“You can wash up first,” he offers, subdued and not fully meeting my eyes.
If it weren’t for the fact that Gabriel is waiting his turn, I would dither in the bathroom for far longer. As it is, I scrub my face, brush my teeth, and put on the baggiest shirt and shorts I can find.
My face flames as I scurry under the covers, all awkward and bumbling, sending a pillow to the floor in my clumsy attempt to haul the sheet up to my nose.
I wait in total silence for him to take his turn in the bathroom. And when he comes out, I can’t bring myself to watch him make his way to the bed. It’s too intimate, too real.
Gabriel is far more graceful in sliding into bed. I cringe, imagining that unlike me, he’s probably unaffected. Why should he be? He has made it clear I’m nothing more than a snuggle buddy. I probably rate somewhere between stuffed animal and oversized pillow.
The room plunges into darkness. I can hear myself breathing—too loud and too fast. I can hear him breathing—too steady and too controlled.
Fuck. What was I thinking? I can’t do this.
The silence is so thick between us now that I’m suffocating in it.
Gabriel turns my way, and I immediately roll to my other side, facing away from him. It’s basic self-preservation. If we’re face to face right now, I don’t know what I’ll do. But I’m pretty sure it would end with me being utterly embarrassed.
He doesn’t seem to mind. No, he moves closer. Goosebumps break out over my skin as his body comes into contact with mine. A heavy, muscular arm settles around my waist. And I forget to breathe.
What the hell is wrong with me? I napped with him earlier, and I was fine. Well, not fine. I wanted to stay in his arms forever. But I wasn’t all out of sorts.
I wasn’t fighting a shiver the way I am now.
His warm breath caresses the top of my head. “Relax, Sophie.”
I release a breath. “I’m trying.”
His voice is a whisper in the dark. “Are you uncomfortable?”
Uncomfortable? His big hand gently presses my belly, taking in the soft swell, which really sucks, but the way he keeps his hold there makes me think he either doesn’t notice or likes what he feels. Wishful thinking.