Page 207 of Trouble from Abroad
I gulp in air and nod, not trusting myself to say anything intelligible.
Preston plates up for me and we eat in silence proppedagainst the island. It feels more intimate than sitting at the table. Cozy enough that your knees brush if we’re not careful. His ankle bumps mine once. Oops. Then again. Oh. And now I hate how fast my heart decides that second touch means something.
* * *
The rest of the afternoon unfolds gently. Preston disappears upstairs with a new mission after speaking to the interior designer. Something about matching wood samples and measuring ceiling beams.
I give myself an hour of actual work: emails, two checklist revisions, and a call with April to confirm tomorrow’s viewing. Then it’s time to switch gears.
We pick Lily up, and she’s full of beans, running towards her dad with paint-stained fingers and a tote bag overflowing with glittered crafts. Preston, who is waiting for her in front of the car, crouches to her level and kisses every inch of her pretty face.
Back home, he sits with her on the floor, treating every scribbled picture she pulls from her bag like it belongs in the Louvre. I watch from the kitchen island, pretending not to melt into the marble.
She holds up a popsicle-stick crown bedazzled enough to rival the Queen of England’s tiara collection, then turns to me. “Can we have a picnic in the TV room?”
“Only if you let me go full Pinterest on it,” I tell Preston, already planning for throw pillows and fairy lights.
Preston groans behind her. “This is going to be a mistake.”
I turn to Lily, both arms in the air. “That’s a yes, Lils.”
She helps me spread a thick quilt across the room’s rug, and I pile three more blankets nearby. Her favorite plushies join us, along with nearly every cushion and pillow in the house. In the kitchen, I stack two trays with cheese, crackers, grapes, mini quiches I found in the freezer, and apple slices with peanut butter.
Lily chooses the movie—one of her comfort rewatches, apparently—and when the lights dim, the whole room glows gold.
We eat on the floor. Preston complains about how stiff his back will be tomorrow, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he pulls a blanket over Lily, then grabs another and drapes it around my shoulders.
Eventually, Lily curls up in his lap, breath evening out into soft little snores. Leave it to her to make snoring cute.
“I’m taking her to bed,” he murmurs, standing in one smooth motion with her tucked in his arms.
“You mind if I finish it? I actually love this movie. I’ll clean up later.”
He doesn’t answer, just nods once and moves silently up the stairs.
I expect him to stay there. Tuck her in. Call it a night himself.
But he comes back, all stealth and silent. And when he sits on the couch behind me, I know I’m not watching the film anymore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
mia
His legs bracket my body,one on each side, grounding me between him and the cushion I’m leaning against. I feel him everywhere—the heat, the weight, the sheer presence of him. It wraps around me like a promise. Or a dare.
The TV fades to static. I couldn’t recall what’s on the screen if my life depended on it. My breath shortens. My thighs clench without permission. My pulse is so high, an oximeter would file for early retirement. He’s too close. This position is too intimate. My body knows something’s coming, and it blindly wants to meet it halfway.
“I thought I’d come back and teach you a thing or two about massages.” He places his hands on my arms and gives them a gentle squeeze. Is there any chance he didn’t feel my body shivering?
“Yeah. I mean… sure. Why not? Right?”Urgh. Why does the English vocabulary fail me whenever I’m horny?
Preston slips a finger under the strap ofthe flimsy top I’m wearing and the chills make a comeback. I have no game. No hope whatsoever.
“Can I lower these?” he asks and I nod.
In one smooth go, both top and bra straps are down to my elbow. The surgeon is precise. “Hope you don’t mind I borrowed some of your oil,” he adds.
The one you said smelled like me and kept you company in bed?
