Page 127 of Spicy Ever After
“It’ll do that.” I cross the room, grab the lined wastebasket by my desk, and move it to her side of the bed. “Just in case.”
She groans. “Please tell me I’m done puking.”
She sipped the BioLite on the ride home, and that stayed down. Gotta be a good sign. “You’re probably done puking. Time will tell.” I reach for the switch on the bedside lamp. “Okay if I turn the light out?”
Hattie doesn’t open her eyes. “Mmm hmm.”
I kill the light, kick off my boots, and shed my jeans and shirt, leaving me in boxer briefs and a white T.
“Did… did you just get naked?” Hattie asks, sounding awestruck.
“No-o-o,” I say through a laugh. “Still have boxers and an undershirt. Promise.”
Silence.
Then—
“Darn.”
I swear, this woman.
Failing to smother my laughter, I climb under the covers with her. I get close, but I don’t touch her. She’s still not feeling great, and I want her to know I’ll leave her be.
But as soon as I go still, she wriggles. “Where are you?”
“Right here.” I reach for her hand under the covers and squeeze it.
“Would… would you…” She doesn’t finish.
“Would I what?” I don’t tell her the answer is yes, no matter the question.
I hear her take a deep breath—a courage-fortifying breath. “I’ve never… spooned.”
Jesus, I’m so glad she can’t see my shit-eating grin right now.
“Want me to spoon you, honeysuckle?”
Her voice goes timidly soft. “Yeah.”
Then I feel her turn onto her side, her back to me.
And when I curl around her—my chest to her back, one arm locked around her middle, her ass tucked against my lap—it’s like I’ve notched cleanly into my place in the universe. The one custom-made just for me.
With my nose in her hair, I breathe in her sweet apricot scent and sigh all the way to my toes.
“You feel so fucking good.” I can’t help that it comes out like a growl.
Hattie lays an arm over mine. “You feel good. I feel terrible… No. That’s not true.” She squeezes my wrist. “I feel better than I did at… at… where were we again?
“The Grouse Room,” I say through my chuckle.
“The Grouse Room,” she echoes, enunciating carefully. “Grouse Room… Anyway, thank you for coming to get me… for bringing me here.”
I scoff. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how much I wanted to.”
Her yawn warps her next words. “But… yeer…. so… b-busy.”
I hug her tighter to me. She’s right. But the thought of not going to get her when she called? The thought of not prioritizing her over a good night’s sleep or a productive day tomorrow? It seems wrong down to my core.
