Page 102 of Dream House
“I get it.” I know what she’s going to say, and I don’t need her to say it. Neither one of us planned for this. It just happened. And it might not happen again. Especially if she doesn’t want it to.
“No, I don’t think you do.” Her words are gentle but her tone is firm. “I live with my daughter, my brother, and my best friend. And so do you.”
Okay, maybe I didn’t get it. But now I do.
I nod for real this time. “Right. We won’t say anything.” I bite my tongue before the wordsjust yetslip out.
And, hell, where did that come from?
I don’t have time to wonder because Stella is making to wiggle out from under me. I climb off her and offer her a hand to stand. After she takes it and I help her up, I don’t let go.
“Can I walk you back to your place?” I tease.
“Better not,” Stella says, but her smile softens the sting. “Don’t want to wake Maisy.”
I nod and squeeze her hand before letting it go.
But then she grabs back again, stretches up on her tiptoes, and offers me her mouth. I bend to take it, and then because I can’t help it, I wrap her up in my arms, and kiss her until we both sway a little.
“Okay,” Stella says, a little breathless some time later.
“Okay,” I pant, forcing myself to step back, but keeping my hands on her hips.
I follow her out into the hallway, and when we reach the middle of the space, I stop and watch her until all I can see is her silhouette. When she reaches her door, I can tell she turns to look back, but I can’t make out her face.
I want to groan when she slips into her room, and I make my way back to the living room. I’ve never been so grateful for a busted AC, but not having a bedroom to disappear into and take matters into my own hand is sort of confining.
At first, I’m sure I won’t sleep. But the sofa where I stretched out on top of Stella smells like her. And—after a while—the air in the room cools my blood. And I shut my eyes, wanting morning to hurry up and get here.
“You snore.”
I peel my eyes open to sunlight streaming into the living room and Maisy staring down at me with her bumble bee stare.
I rub my eyes like it’s an Olympic sport. “Don’t tell anybody,” I croak.
A grin splits her face. “I already told Mama and Livy.”
Great.
“You want cim-mim rolls? Mama made cim-mim rolls.”
I fucking love cinnamon rolls. “Yeah.”
“Well,” she informs me, “you can only have two.”
I stop rubbing my eyes and peer at her. “Why only two?”
“‘Cause. There’s only twelve. We each get two.”
I frown. “But there’s seven of us.”
Maisy blinks at me, clearly too young for her multiplication tables.
I count them out on my fingers. “Two for you. Two for me. Two for your mom—”
“Mama’s not having any,” she blurts.
“Why not?”
