As we were doing this we giggled and gabbed and at the end I made up my face with makeup that I brought to work with me. It was like we were back in high school and didn’t have a care in the world except getting that Shakespeare play read for English class or writing the report for Psych.
Until then I had no idea how much I was holding back, even with my friends, and letting go again felt so good, it was beautiful.
I also shared. Not much but I did. I had to. For some reason, it was bubbling up inside of me and I had to get it out.
The thing was, when I did and with how everyone was acting around me, I didn’t feel like I was being stupid and I didn’t feel scared. I felt like I was doing right, not by them, by me, by Colt but, in the end, letting them off the hook because they were worried about the both of us and wanted us to be happy.
And I had been right and Colt was right last night. We couldn’t turn back the clock, go back and change things. We had life ahead of us; we needed to focus on that.
I just dropped the first slice of egged-up bread in the skillet when Colt hit the kitchen.
He didn’t go directly to the coffeepot. Instead, he came directly to me and put a hand at my hip and his mouth to my neck. He kissed me there and I felt his head come up.
“French toast?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“Stuffed French toast,” I corrected.
“You cook like this every morning?”
“No,” I answered, “only after I’ve had three orgasms I didn’t have to give myself.”
His arm shot around my belly to hold me tight to his long length at the same time he burst out laughing.
I dropped another slice of bread next to the first one and smiled but didn’t laugh with him. If I laughed with him, I wouldn’t be able to hear him doing it and it might take my mind off the feel of his body shaking with humor against mine.
I was unnecessarily scooting the bread around in the skillet when he stopped laughing and his arm gave me a squeeze.
“That happen a lot?” he asked, there was still humor in his voice, also a hint of curiosity and definitely an edge.
He shouldn’t have asked, men shouldn’t ask that shit. Still, I’d been gone a long time and although we weren’t living in the past anymore that didn’t mean we didn’t have catching up to do.
“Hmm, let me see,” I kept scooting the bread around, “that’s happened zero times. The big goose egg.”
His hand got tight on my waist and I twisted my neck to look at him.
His brows were raised. “Seriously?”
I tried not to get pissed. He was succeeding in both casually insulting me and being full of himself.
“Seriously,” I replied. “Firstly, because there weren’t that many guys I gave a shot. Secondly, because the ones I did either didn’t have the talent or they didn’t have the stamina.”
He grinned. “Shoulda picked better, baby.”
“I did all right in the end.”
He burst out laughing again, gave my neck another kiss and let me go.
Then he went to the coffeepot.
I flipped the toast while he poured.
“I’ll have to pull back,” he said, shoving the pot back in and turning to lean a hip on the counter beside the stove, “I don’t, I’ll put on fifty pounds.”
I turned to look at him. “You don’t get it, darlin’. I’m givin’ you the energy so you can work it off.”
He laughed again and moved away. I slid a piece of toast on a plate and started slathering it with cream cheese I’d beat up with powdered sugar, vanilla, slivered almonds and the zest of an orange.
“For the record February,” Colt said to my back, “I’ve had bad. I’ve had good. A couple who were great.” I slid the second piece of toast on top and turned to him, curious myself even though I didn’t want to be. He was sitting on the counter behind me and when my eyes hit his, he finished in a soft voice. “Now, I’ve had the best.”
I turned away quickly when I felt the heat rush my cheeks, ignoring the curl in my belly at his words that indicated what they meant to me. I dumped a pat of butter on top of the toast, slid it around while it melted and covered the whole thing with maple syrup that I’d nuked with a bit of orange juice mixed in. Then I turned to Colt again and handed him the plate.
“Now that we’ve established we’re sexually compatible –” I started, reaching to the side to pull out the cutlery drawer and grab him a fork.
“Sexually compatible?” he asked.
I shoved the drawer back in and handed him his fork.
“Extremely sexually compatible,” I amended.
He smiled and forked into his toast, muttering, “That’s better.”
I moved to lean a hip against his knee and asked, “What now?”
He took a huge, man-bite of toast and said around it, “What now?”
“This.”
His brows went up as he chewed.
“Us. Now. You and me,” I explained.
He swallowed and asked, “We gotta plan this shit out?”
“Well… no, not exactly,” I said as he forked in another bite.
I said that but I meant, yes, definitely.
Colt chewed, eyeing me like he knew what I meant wasn’t what I said then swallowed again. “How ‘bout we take this a day at a time, fix it so you don’t have some whack-job on the loose wreaking havoc for you and then we’ll see. Deal?”
That sounded like a plan.
I smiled at him. “Deal.” I watched him fork up another piece and asked, “You gonna want another?”
“Yeah.”
I made him more toast and then cleaned up after as he ate, liking his kitchen and moving around it while he was sitting on the counter eating food I cooked for him.
He finished, rinsed his dish and put it in the dishwasher while I was wiping down the counters. I tossed the sponge into the sink and dried my hands thinking he needed new dishtowels. Something yellow, bright and cheery.
“Feb, baby, got somethin’ to tell you.”
I turned to him and he moved into me. His face was serious and something about it made me brace. Bad news was coming and there were no longer thoughts of cheery, yellow dishtowels in my head even as he pulled the one I had out of my hands and threw it on the counter beside me.
He put both his hands to my neck, settling them where it met my shoulders and he gave me a squeeze.
“Suicide last night,” he said and stopped talking.
“Yeah?”
“It was someone you know.”