Page 63 of Rising Heat
Tyler takes a sip of wine, eyes dropping briefly to the couch before finding me again.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
His grin widens.
“You sat exactly one throw pillow away from me.”
I glance down and immediately regret it. He’s right. One oversized cream pillow sits between us like a peace treaty neither of us remembers signing.
“I won’t bite,” Tyler says, lifting his wine glass, “Unless you’re into that.”
“You’re insufferable,” I say, rolling my eyes despite the blush I can feel crawling up my face.
“And yet, here I am. In your apartment. Feeding you.”
Before I can come up with a response, I shove a forkful of pasta into my mouth. My eyes widen despite myself, and Tyler doesn’t miss it.
He looks unbearably pleased with himself.
“Like something?”
You can say that again.
I take another bite instead of answering.
Tyler’s grin turns smug.
“Thought so.”
I point my fork at him.
“This feels like manipulation.”
Tyler leans back, one arm stretched along the back of the couch.
“Maybe.”
I smile into my wine.
The candle flickers on the coffee table between us while the TV plays in the background, and I’m sitting cross-legged on my couch eating dinner with a man who showed up carrying carbs for no good reason.
I feel entirely spoiled.
Tyler glances over.
“You miss home?”
The question catches me off guard. I tuck one leg beneath me, turning slightly toward him.
“Sometimes.”
He nods like that makes perfect sense. Like homesickness is something to hold instead of solve.
“What do you miss?”
