He set the plate down on the table—she sat where she’d been sitting the night before, sipping her coffee from a sleek black thermos. His coffee was in front of the seat he’d had the night before, in a mug with the words SEE YOU, SPACE COWBOY superimposed over a silhouette of a dude with big hair.
“Is this a cryptic message?” he asked playfully as he picked up the cup and looked at the words. “Like, ‘Get out’?”
“No, it’s from this show I liked and it seemed appropriate for you.”
“Why?” he asked, noticing how her gaze skated away from him.
“Well, the main character is tall, kind of blunt, and . . . hot.” She glanced at her plate and her expression tightened. “You cut my food for me? I can cut my own food.”
He flipped a new Reggie puzzle piece—she liked getting what she wanted, but she didn’t like anyone assuming she needed anything. It didn’t take an expert at emotions to figure out the why behind that.
“Force of habit. I cut mine, too,” he said, tilting his plate so she could see. “I won’t cut yours next time.” He wasn’t going to let what she’d said before that slide, though. “Are you saying I’m hot?”
“Are you saying there’s going to be a next time?” she countered, one thin brow lifted.
“I don’t know. That’s up to you after you have a taste.” He kept his gaze on her, trying not to be unnerving but also really, intensely wanting to look at her face because, man, it was a great face. She was great.
He tried to push down the excitement building in him; not sexual excitement, but an almost overwhelming happiness that he was there with her. That she’d talked to him about her problems and he’d made her laugh.
She stabbed her fork into a piece of toast. “You’re a flirt. I never would’ve guessed. You were kind of serious during The Puzzle Zone.”
He hadn’t had much to laugh about back then. He’d felt like a failure, unable to handle the stress of life that everyone else was breezing through. His relationship and career had imploded, and he’d just spun out, ending his careening back at his family’s house, where they’d worried over him and made him feel even worse.
“I was going through some things,” he said. “The puzzles helped. And so did you.”
She kept her eyes on him as she guided the food into her mouth, but they slammed shut as she began to chew.
“Okay. Yeah, we def need there to be a next time,” she said.
Gus watched her eat the next bite to make sure she was really enjoying it, and then he tucked into his own plate. After they finished, he refilled their coffee cups and they moved into the living room, where the duffel bag he’d carried with him waited. He pulled out a few miniature prototype clues for the game room as Reggie settled onto the love seat, laying them out on the coffee table next to his notebook.
He sat next to her and began moving the items around, trying to figure out how they could best flow and what was missing.
“You made all of these?” she asked. “This is incredible, and so are the sketches in your notebook. You’re an artist.”
“I’m not an artist. I’m a planner.” He opened the notebook, flipping through pages full of sketches of ideas for the room. He pushed a small folded paper spindle to sit next to a cut paper rosebush. A clay version of the Sword of Truth rested against a small wooden puzzle box he was figuring out how best to use.
“Why not both?” she asked stubbornly and Gus just grinned in return. They settled into their respective work, Reggie tapping away at some high-tech looking version of a laptop table. She was completely focused on the screen, seemed to have forgotten Gus was even there, and he couldn’t have been happier. It was so good, to be with someone who focused as intensely as he did, who would understand why he couldn’t pull himself away from a game or his design work—within reason of course.
He was sketching the design for the Phil’s Shield of Virtue, wondering where to integrate a clue into the swirling Briar’s on its surface, when he felt something warm on his face, like sunshine. When he glanced beside him, Reggie was gazing at him, her brown eyes wide behind her glasses. That’s where the warmth was coming from. Whatever she was thinking, with her lips slightly parted and her cheeks rosy brown, he could feel it.
She quickly looked back down at the keyboard in front of her, blinking rapidly. In profile, he could see how her long lashes brushed against the lenses of her glasses.
He put his pencil into the crease of the sketchbook and closed it.
“Reggie. Can I tell you about part two of my breakfast blush plan?” There hadn’t been a part two to the plan, but now there was. As always, he improvised best when it meant overcoming a challenge.
She licked her lips but kept her eyes on the laptop’s screen. “Sure.”
“It’s a kiss,” he said. “Can I kiss you?”
Okay, maybe that would have been smoother if he’d put some thought into it, but she was nodding as she turned her head toward him.
His whole body tingled with anticipation as he leaned closer to her. He watched her, not shutting his eyes as he leaned in to bring their mouths closer. She held his gaze, anticipation bright in her eyes until her head jerked to the side during his slow approach. Then she slammed her eyes shut, as if in annoyance, and her body went stiff. She seemed to be trying to hold herself still.
Gus didn’t say anything. He slid one hand up her neck, the last three fingers nestling into her curls to cup the base of her skull. His index finger rested behind the shell of her ear and his thumb stroked from her cheek to her temple. His mouth was so close to hers, so close to tasting—
“Wait,” she breathed, her eyes fluttering open.
Gus froze.
Her cheek appled against his palm when she smiled, and mischief shone in her eyes—along with determination. “What does this have to do with French toast?”
She rested one hand along his waist, her fingertips grazing his side as she fisted his T-shirt in her hand. Now she was holding him, too, because Reggie wasn’t the type to give in to a kiss just because he’d asked. If he held her, sneakily offering support she hadn’t asked for, she’d hold him right back.
“Let me show you,” he said, and then he crushed his lips against hers because he knew what the glint in her eyes and her knuckles twisting his shirt meant—she didn’t want him to treat her with some misguided gentleness. She’d told him earlier that she was tough, and though he had some questions about that, he wouldn’t treat her like he thought otherwise. She exhaled hard from the surprise of his change in speed, and then she moaned and, oh man, Gus felt that sound all through his body.
Her tongue slipped into his mouth, bringing with it the taste of cinnamon and sugar and sweet maple syrup, and now Gus closed his eyes, lost in the slick warmth of her and the joy of kissing someone he really, really liked. He’d been wrong in his prediction—she wasn’t a good kisser, she was a great one. She was confident and responsive, returning whatever he gave but gently guiding him to show what she liked.
“Mmm,” he groaned into her mouth, stroking his tongue against hers hard, not to dominate her, but to show her that he understood what she wanted. That he could give it to her. “You taste sweet,” he said against her lips. He brought his other hand up to her face, so that he cradled her head in both his palms as he nipped at her lips and their tongues clashed.