Page 107 of Dangle

Just Trey.

“Well, Trey Malachek, I’ll be in touch.”

“I look forward to hearing from you.”

EPILOGUE

TREY

December

Mexico, or maybe just a Mexican food truck, smacked me in the face when I slid open the loft door. I loved when he made fajitas. Everything he made was fucking amazing, but this was our meal. The first one he cooked for us. The one we ate while we became an us.

“Hey!” I said, moving into the kitchen, my keys twirling around my finger.

Slone stood at the gas stove, stirring onions and peppers in a large black skillet that sat over the blue flames. Another skillet, this one square instead of round, sat on the other burner, steaks searing loudly. I loved that he cooked the steaks to order instead of with the vegetables.

I wrapped my arms around his waist. “Smells delicious,” I murmured against his skull before pressing my lips to the place I found behind his ear that made him, and then me, sigh every time.

“Thank you. I just showered.”

I set my chin on his shoulder and laughed, giving that spot another kiss. “Good to know, but I meant the food, Daddy.”

“I’m wounded.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am. Fatally. You think I smell bad.”

“You’re ridiculous, and if anyone smelled bad, it would be the hockey player.”

“God, don’t get me started on how bad your fucking gear smells. I don’t know how you drive around with that shit in your truck.”

I tossed my keys onto the counter next to the stove. “It goes?—”

“Those do not go there.”

“Hmm,” I muttered, distracted by the sexiest fucker…

“Come with me?—”

“I plan to,” I interrupted.

“Fuck you’re a brat,” Slone said, twisting the range knobs to turn down the flames under the food.

He snatched up my keys then pushed me back as he stepped from my arms. Our fingers threaded together when he grabbed my hand, dragging me along behind him to the entryway.

“What—”

“Keys,” he said, holding mine up before dropping them, “go here from now on.”

My eyes followed the keys’ descent. When the metal hit the wooden bowl with a mutedthunk, I looked back at him with what had to be a weird, confused look if the pinched feeling of my face was anything to go by.

“Umm…”

“Don’t um me, kid. You missed class the other day after spending thirty minutes looking for your keys because you tossed them on the coffee table before scarfing down your weight in Chinese food. And I’m still vacuuming up grains of rice and peas and carrots, by the way.”

“That’s on you. It was your foot that knocked it off the table.”