Is that what she finds attractive in a man? Fangs and scowls and leather pants?
Leather pants aren’t comfortable.
“Oh! Oh my gosh, silly me. Are you hungry? I made some peach ginger barbecue chicken earlier, and the coleslaw is my grandma’s secret recipe—but don’t worry, it won’t make you fall in love with me—that’s her strawberry cobbler, which I use responsibly since it’s what my mom used to make my dad fall in love with her, and look how that turned out—and I also picked up some sweet corn from the farmers market downtown. It would only take a few minutes to get that boiled if you want some. Or I can stop talking if you need to go to sleep. What time’s your game tomorrow?”
“Fresh sweet corn?”
She beams at me like I’m a toddler with a speech delay who finally said the word mama. “Yes! Let me put some water on to boil. Oh, also, I replaced your shower head with one that doesn’t try to poke holes in my skin, but I left the old one under the sink so you can switch it out if you prefer it. Also, I called an oven repair guy while you were gone, and he came and took one look at your kitchen and started laughing, which was quite rude, and then he asked if your landlord was a total rhymes with grassmole for not updating this kitchen seventeen years ago, which was even ruder, so I’m writing him into my next Confucius book as a half-zombie who knows he’s being taken over by the zombie bite and is helpless to stop it and is now reflecting on all the bad decisions he made in his life that caused his wife and child and parakeet to leave him, but I’ll probably edit it all out before I publish the book, because that’s too dark for a Nora Dawn book.”
Is she breathing while she talks, does she secretly have gills? “Do I make you nervous?”
She pauses for an infinitesimal second, her brows furrowing again. “Is that a movie quote? Am I supposed to guess what it came from?”
“You talk a lot. I want to know if it’s because I make you nervous.”
“For real, Luca, I don’t know what movie that’s from. I don’t watch that many movies. I read a lot of books—or listen. Ohmygosh, did I tell you I got Jason Clarke to narrate How to Train Your Vampire? His voice. It’s like…shew.” She fans herself. “It just does it for me. That’s why the book isn’t out yet—I wanted the audiobook to release at the same time. But it does mean I should get back to work. Oh! But your corn. First, I’ll get your corn.”
“I can make corn.”
“But do you know the trick? I learned it from a cooking show. Most people way overcook boiled corn. You should only boil it for maybe three minutes for maximum flavor and crispness.”
“Do you also use magic truffle salt and water made with the tears of unicorns?”
“Aww, you’re cranky! It’s me, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.”
“It’s not you. It’s me. I’m a grassmole.”
“Luca. You sent lunch to all those teachers in Florida who were going back to school this week, and you signed autographs and played ball with those kids in the bleachers in the outfield, and you asked people to donate to that family that lost their home in that fire on social media, and—”
“It’s my job.”
She rolls her eyes so hard, the dude on her cover winces like his eyeballs hurt in sympathy. “And you’re trying to counteract The Eye. I know. But it still matters that you do good things for other people, no matter why. It ripples. Like, one of those teachers probably had more patience with a kid who needed it that day because of you, or one of those kids you played ball with probably went home feeling like it was okay if he was dyslexic because he was still worthy of playing catch with one of his heroes, and that family—”
“Henri?”
“I know,” she sighs. “Stop talking.”
I wince. She does talk a lot, but after getting a few walls of texts from her in the past few days, I’ve realized she genuinely has a lot to say, and she probably hears stop talking more than she deserves.
Plus, has she been alone the last three days while I’ve been traveling? That can’t be healthy for a person with as much to say as Henri has. “Do you need help with your books?”
Her eyes flare wide. “Ohmygosh, is your Nonna on her way?”
“No, she’s—”
Too late.
Henri’s turned into Henri-on-a-mission, which means she’s flying around a stack of books, but missing and knocking into the stack of books, which sends all of the tomes toppling off the table and onto Dogzilla, who rowls and shoots between my legs, which is pretty fucking impressive considering I would’ve expected the cat to just lay there with a pile of books on her and give Henri a pathetic please get these off me so I don’t have to move look.
Huh.
Those walls of text now have me imagining Dogzilla’s internal monologues. Also—“Is your cat in a cat costume?”
She flips on the water to fill a pot. “She insisted. I offered the frog costume, the Marilyn Monroe costume, and the vampire costume, but she wouldn’t get off the cat costume. That one cracks me up. What cat wants to dress up like a cat? But I guess she was feeling like being an orange tabby today.”
“Is that a new faucet?”
She freezes. “Oh. Yeah, I installed that yesterday after I did some research on what causes faucet leaks. Your old one probably would’ve been fine with the temporary fix your plumber did, but this was better. If you don’t like the design—”
Jesus.
She’s going to make me do it.
She’s going to make me kiss her to shut her up.
I don’t know why it feels necessary when thirty seconds ago her blabbering was simply cute and endearing and not at all sexy, but I’m suddenly striding across the kitchen, cupping her cheeks, and devouring her lips like I’m a possessed Cupid trying to kiss the words out of her mouth and the problems out of the world.
Oh, god.
It’s The Eye.
I’m kissing Henri because I’m possessed by The Eye.
And I don’t care.
I’m the bug. I’m the bug drawn to the bug zapper light, and I don’t care. Because her lips taste like honey and they’re pillowy soft and pliable beneath mine, and I will never get enough of the sound of a woman’s sigh as she gives in to kissing me back, and until this exact moment, I didn’t realize how much I’ve been missing a woman’s touch.
Especially since this one comes with actual, honest to god blood flow to my dick.
Did I say blood flow?
I meant the dam burst and I’m harder than a baseball bat for the first time in what feels like seven long losing seasons.
She pushes up on her toes and wraps her arms around my neck. I reach behind her and shut the water off, turn us, and trip over another pile of books.
“Don’t stop,” she gasps when I break the kiss, and the next thing I know, we’re all over each other.
Is there anything hotter than being wanted by a woman?
I don’t think so.
She’s pressing her belly into Mr. Woody. I’m thrusting my tongue down her throat. She scrapes her fingernails down my back, but I’m wearing a shirt, which seems stupid when there’s a woman wanting to leave marks, so I pull back long enough to rip the damn thing over my head, shove three more piles of books off the countertop, and hoist her up there before diving back into ravaging her mouth.