Twenty-Two
Gavin
This breakfast with Mia is going to be nothing like other meals we’ve shared together. Even the mornings we’ve spent at the
cabin, we were joined by friends, or my sister-in-law and nephews, my brother and I trying to one-up each other with dad jokes
and Mia proclaiming such a feat was impossible.
There was never just us, not at the coffee shop where we have our orders memorized and eat at tables surrounded by people
on their computers, or at our usual brunch spot, Mia bleary-eyed at the early wake-up, the bustle of the weekend rush filling
the air.
We’ve never woken up together, her lips looking impossibly plush, face pressed to my pillow. I’ve never seen her from this
angle—the dip of her neck where it meets her shoulder, tender and exposed, the curve of her cheek as she turns to look at
me.
I couldn’t resist kissing her again, lingering in bed until the sun rose high enough to reach the photo of us at Scott’s wedding on my dresser, a beam of light slanting across our smiling faces.
My last girlfriend told me it was weird to have a picture of Mia in here, facing my bed.
She made it sound illicit, but the truth is, Mia is with me wherever I go.
She’s been in my heart since that night we met in a dingy hallway, her heartbroken and me already halfway in love.
The photo stayed; that girlfriend is long gone. And maybe that should’ve been a sign that what I’ve felt for Mia is stronger
than what I’ve felt for anyone else. Except, last night I tried to tell her, and she rebuffed me, like one of the kittens
batting at a string, claws sheathed, no malice, but her insistence we not define the shift in our relationship stung. Her
kisses soothed it away, as she led me back to the bedroom, but now, even though she’s here, even though she wants this, part
of me can’t help but wonder if she wants all of me, like I’ve wanted her, since forever.
Finally, my noisy grumbling stomach has her climbing out of bed, laughing at the sheet tangled around her legs. She ignores
my promises that food can wait and tugs me down the hallway, leaning into the laundry room to check on the kittens, balls
of fur nestled in next to their mom, who understandably looks like she could sleep for a week.
Today is my day off and technically I can sleep in, too. Yet another perk of being an employee for a small establishment like
Hill and Dale is the ability to set my own hours, something I’d never be able to do as owner of the tree nursery. Up until
recently, Dad hadn’t taken a full day off in my life, and that could never be me. I decided early on I wanted to work to live,
not the inverse.
Mia is like my dad. Dedicated. Passionate about what she does. But also, like my dad, I worry she’s headed toward burnout,
or maybe she’s already there. It’s half of why I agreed to the trope scheme. Because it sounded like a way for Mia to let
loose a little. Never thought it would end with her bare-legged in my kitchen, humming as she takes out a carton of orange
juice.
I step up behind her, wrapping her in my arms, and press a kiss behind her ear.
“What are you doing?” she asks, leaning into me.
“Kissing you.” And then I do just that, sliding my hand up to pull her hair aside, pressing my lips to her neck, the juncture of her shoulder.
She spins to face me, and I take the juice from her, set it.
.. somewhere. I’m not concerned with anything much besides her.
Her back is to the open refrigerator door, the cool air vapor around us.
My thumb cups her jaw and I slot my mouth against hers. Our kiss is sweet and slow, a discovery. Awareness spreads through
me, of how good it is between us, how we fit, effortlessly, not just in friendship, but in this kiss.
Desire for her flares bright, a match sparking into flame when she moans, parting her mouth. I slide my hands under her thighs
and lift her, kicking the fridge door closed as I turn and set her on the counter. She’s smiling, perfect lips curved in invitation,
and I decide just friends is never going to be good enough again.
“Please tell me you have something other than gruel.” She’s called oatmeal “gruel” ever since our college days, when she insisted
on sitting at least a table away in the cafeteria anytime I served myself oatmeal from the breakfast bar. Which, since I was
on a four-year-long mission to grow man-size muscles, was pretty often.
She still teases me for the amount of eggs and oats I consumed during my college years, second only to wings and cheap lager.
I make a show of taking out both steel-cut and rolled oats but really I’m scanning the pantry for Mia-approved options because
the last thing I want to do is venture out for breakfast. Normally I’d love to hit up one of our favorite spots, but normally
I wouldn’t have her all to myself, sitting at my dining table looking like a whole meal herself.
She clears her throat, and I realize I’ve turned from the pantry to stare at her. Instead of scolding me, she holds my gaze,
pursing her lips to blow on her coffee.
“Geez, Mia... I thought you wanted to eat.”
A smirk curves her lips, and I bite my lip, hard. She’s shown me herself with the filter off, undiluted, and I want to drink her in.
I cross the room and bend to kiss her. She palms the back of my neck, arching upward. We’re in tune, her touch perfectly calibrated
to set me on fire. Her fingers are on my chest when the doorbell rings. We spring apart, the chair tipping, and I make a wild
grab for the back of it and catch Mia mid-fall. An impatient knock sets off a chorus of meows from the laundry room, and Mia’s
laugh tickles my skin.
“This funny to you, Brady?”
Another knock sounds, and her eyes flicker up, wide, as if she’s just realized what we’re doing, and where. She ducks under
my arm and sprints for my room. Grateful I installed blinds last month, I rush to the laundry room and grab a shirt at random
from the hamper, ignoring the questioning blinks of the cat family, whose curiosity looks more accusatory than normal. I shut
the door on Mama Cat’s feline judgment, then open the front door and catch Morris in the act of ringing the bell a third time.
He gives me a slow once-over. “Catching you at a bad time?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re wearing a polo with sweatpants.”
I glance down and—shit. He’s right. “Laundry day.”
He laughs. “Okay, we’ll go with that. Is she still here? Should I come back later?”
“Why are you here anyway, at...” I lean back to look at the microwave clock. Almost ten? Damn, I can’t remember the last
time I slept past eight.
“Did you or did you not extort me for free manual labor when you agreed to take the cats?”
I swallow, trying to recall anything before last night. Everything else outside Mia and me seems hazy, unreal.
Morris blinks at me. “Have you been drinking?”
“No, I just—” The can of wood stain by the porch railing catches my eye and I remember. “The pergola.”
“Yep,” he confirms, still eyeing me suspiciously. “Though why I agreed to spend my Sunday staining your pergola when it’s
clearly not a priority for you is beyond me.”
“Sorry, man. It’s just these kittens—”
His face brightens. “How are those little fuzzballs? Can I see them?” He makes a move to get past me, but I step to the side,
resting my forearm on the doorjamb.
“Not right now, they’re, uh... sleeping.”
“Cats sleep all day, man,” he says.
“But kittens need their rest.”
He peers around me. “You do have a woman in there, don’t you?”
“No.” I send silent vibes for Mia to stay put but have no doubt she will. She didn’t even want to discuss the change in our
relationship with me. I’m sure the last thing she wants is Morris finding out. “But we should get started. The day will heat
up fast. Let me change and I’ll meet you out back.”
He narrows his eyes, then shrugs. “Whatever. But I’m not leaving without seeing those kittens. I gotta make sure you’re doing
right by them.”
“Chill. I spent half of yesterday getting them settled in.” Once he heads around the house toward the deck, I close the door
and jog-step to the bedroom, but Mia’s not there. I hear voices in the backyard and peek through the blinds. I can’t believe
what I’m seeing. Mia is coming out of the garden shed, fully clothed in her shorts from yesterday and what I recognize as
one of my T-shirts, knotted at her waist, waving a gloved hand at Morris. What she’s telling him, I have no idea, but damn
if I’m not once again impressed by her.
Here I was fumbling, and all the while Mia was executing a plan.
Thinking on her feet in a way that astounds me but also unnerves me.
Does she care that much about Morris drawing conclusions?
Then again, it’s none of his business. I push the clench of worry aside, riffling through my drawer for an old shirt and pair of gym shorts.
It would’ve been awkward for him to walk in on our cozy breakfast, even if she was my girlfriend. Right?
Tugging the shirt over my disheveled hair, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look frantic, stressed, the exact
opposite of Mia’s calm demeanor. I need to get it together, to prove I can support her in this. That she can trust me, like
always. And then I need to convince her we can make a go of this, for real.
When I come outside, Mia is in the middle of telling Morris she’d just arrived to help with the staining, too.
“And this dude had the nerve to come to the door half dressed,” she says, shaking her head like she can’t believe my flakiness.
She’s putting on a show to deflect his attention from the two of us, but it stings a little, the memories of all the other
times she’s gotten frustrated at my forgetfulness. Once again, the way details slip my mind almost got us in trouble.
“You’re telling me you guys have been friends since college and you’ve never seen Gavin shirtless?”