Chapter 27
Theo
The meal was, if I did say so myself, absolutely perfect. The pork was tender and juicy, the apricot glaze had caramelized to exactly the right consistency, and the Brussels sprouts had that perfect balance of crispy edges and tender centers I’d been trying to achieve for years.
But what made my chest swell with something deeper than pride was watching Jeremiah’s face as he ate: the way his eyes closed with that first bite of pork, the soft sound of appreciation he made when he tried the Brussels sprouts, the way he kept going back for more even after he’d clearly had enough.
He wasn’t just being polite; he was genuinely enjoying every bite, savoring flavors I’d spent hours perfecting.
“This is incredible, Theo,” he said for probably the fourth time, cutting another piece of pork. “I mean it. I’ve eaten at some fancy places, but this is better than anything I’ve had in a restaurant.”
The warmth in his voice, the authentic appreciation, made something flutter in my chest that had nothing to do with cooking and everything to do with the way he was looking at me.
Like I was someone worth impressing.
Like I was someone whose efforts really mattered to him.
“I’m glad you like it,” I said, trying to sound casual, even though his praise was making me feel like I could float right out of my chair.
When we finally finished eating, and Jeremiah insisting on having seconds of everything despite claiming he was “definitely going to explode,” I started to gather the plates.
“Leave them,” Jeremiah said, catching my wrist gently. “I’ll help you clean up later.”
“But the glaze will stick if it sits too long, and—”
“Later,” he repeated, his thumb tracing a small circle against my pulse point. “Come on. Let’s go relax.”
Damn that pulse point.
I let him guide me toward the living room, my skin all tingly where he’d touched me.
As we walked, his hand moved to the small of my back, his fingers drawing more circles through my shirt that sent little thrills racing up my spine.
They were such simple touches, barely there really, but they made me hyperaware of every point of contact between us.
We settled onto the couch, and as I reached for the remote, without any discussion or awkwardness, Jeremiah threw his arm around my shoulders and pulled me against his side.
Like we’d done this a thousand times before.
Like this was exactly where I belonged.
I fumbled with the remote and scrolled through options, finally settling on something light and familiar—a romantic comedy I’d seen enough times to follow even if I wasn’t paying complete attention.
“Good choice,” Jeremiah murmured, his breath warm against my neck.
For the first twenty minutes or so, we actually watched the movie.
I was tucked against Jeremiah’s side, his arm solid and warm around me, occasionally laughing at the predictable jokes and comfortable banter on screen.
It was nice.
It was normal.
It was the kind of thing couples did all the time.
Then Jeremiah started playing with my hair.
It began innocently enough—just his fingers carding through strands that had fallen across my forehead, pushing them back in a gesture that seemed almost unconscious; but then his touch lingered, his fingertips tracing along my scalp in a way that made me shiver.
“Your hair is so soft,” he said quietly, his voice lower than it had been before, almost a growl.
I tilted my head to look up at him, and something in his eyes made my breath catch.
The movie was still playing, but neither of us was watching anymore.
Almost without thinking, I let my hand drift to his thigh, my palm settling against the warm denim drawn tight against the hard muscle beneath. I felt him tense slightly, but it wasn’t the kind of tension that said stop—it was the kind that begged for more.
So I let my fingers trace patterns against his leg, feeling the firmness, the worked-out solidity of his body, respond to my touch.
“Theo,” he rumbled, and there was something in the way he said my name that made heat pool low in my stomach.
I shifted to fully face him, almost squaring our shoulders, and suddenly we were closer than we’d been before, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, close enough to count his eyelashes if I’d wanted to.
Fucking fuckery, I could feel his breath on my lips, taste the lingering sweetness from the glaze. His lips were so full, so ripe, so ready to be nipped and . . .
“Hi,” I whispered.
“Hey you,” he whispered back his signature phrase, the one that melted any resistance I might’ve possessed. Then he leaned down, I was tilted up . . . and our lips met in the middle.
I might’ve died in that moment.
Happy.
Elated.
Complete.
This kiss was different from the one in the kitchen.
It was slower, deeper, full of intention and promise, as though Jeremiah was pouring himself, his very essence, through his lips and into my mouth, driving himself into my spirit in ways that made my head swim.
His hand was still in my hair, holding me gently but firmly, while my fingers tightened against his thigh.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing a little harder.
“The movie’s still on,” I said, though I made no move to look away from his face.
“It’s a good movie,” he admitted.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But I’ve seen it a million times.”
“So you won’t miss anything if we skip the rest?”
I could feel my eyes smiling, curling upward in ways I knew painted crow’s feet around the edges. “What movie?”
He chuckled as we stared at each other for a moment longer. I realized in that moment that we’d crossed some invisible line. The evening had shifted from dinner and friendly conversation to something else entirely, something that made my pulse blaze and my skin feel too tight.
And for the first time all night, I wasn’t nervous about what came next.
I was excited.
“Your couch is really comfortable—”
“Fuck the couch,” I said, drawing a shocked, wide-eyed gaze. “I want to stretch out, and there’s only one place to do that properly. Bedroom?”
Jeremiah’s grin mirrored mine. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”
So I didn’t. I simply rose, took his hand like a lord leading his lady in some Elizabethan play, and guided us past the rom-com, down the short hallway, and into my bedroom.
“Whoa, nice,” Jeremiah said as we entered. “I love the dark curtains.”
A year earlier, I’d splurged and bought a bedroom set styled after an English royal residence I’d seen on Bridgerton or Downton Abbey—I couldn’t remember which.
The colors were rich crimson, deep gold, and traces of blues and blacks.
My curtains were thick, blackouts that hung from floor to ceiling, ensuring no sunrise ever bothered my REM sleep.
That had been a good plan—not well thought out with a tiny gremlin who woke up before the sun, but a good attempt at serenity.
My bed was covered with a puffy duvet and an army of pillows, each mottled with the same colors as the curtains.
Lamps purchased from a fancy lighting shop in Decatur sat on elegantly carved side tables that matched the scrollwork of the headboard that rose nearly halfway up the wall.
It was dramatic. Possibly a bit pretentious.
But the overall effect was, well, regal . . . and I loved it.
“I feel like I should watch where I sit,” Jeremiah said, his eyes widening as he took in the room.
I laughed, spun, gripped his shoulders, and shoved him onto the bed.
“Heeeey!” followed his body.
“I have a five-year-old. You can’t hurt anything.”
One brow rose. “A little pain can be fun . . . in the right place.”
I felt my face coloring long before the heat flared across my neck.
Now it was Jeremiah laughing and reaching out his hand to tug me on top of him. He let out an “oof” as my weight settled but wrapped his arms around me as though I might flee.
Then he kissed me again.
And I felt like I was floating and falling and drowning and breathing air for the first time .
. . and those are a lot of things to feel in one moment.
Jeremiah’s lips were firm and soft, and the way he held me so close, how his hand cradled my head and his lips drank me in, felt unlike any affection I’d ever known.
I groaned.
He jerked his head back, something akin to worry filling his gaze. “Are you okay? Was that okay?”
I reached up and traced fingers across his cheek. “Don’t you ever stop kissing me, please.”
He blinked.
And then his lips crashed into mine once more.
Gentleness vanished, replaced by hunger and pent-up lust I knew we’d both felt for weeks. I wasn’t sure which of us groped or rubbed or kissed harder. I was desperate for him, needed him, couldn’t get enough of him through his layers of clothing.
“If you aren’t naked in two minutes, I’m tearing your clothes off,” I said, surprising us both.
Jeremiah grinned, gently pushed me off him, sat up, and did that crossed-arm-model-move where his shirt flew off and his hair somehow flowed in the nonexistent bedroom breeze.
Fuck me, he was beautiful.
I’d known his body was rock hard, but imagining it through his work shirts and seeing his flesh revealed were two very different things.
English became my second language.
Hell, I think I forgot how to speak.
“Jer . . . God . . . you’re . . . your . . . holy crap, your chest . . . and those arms . . .”
Now his face colored, and his chin ducked in the most adorable move I’d ever seen on any man .
. . ever. For the briefest moment, I forgot the Adonis before me and saw the shy, almost awkward boy, his hair flopping everywhere, his eyes struggling to maintain contact, his cheeks the slightest pink but quickly turning crimson.
The only thing I could do was lean down and press my lips to his.
But he stopped me.
Strong, beefy hands pressed into my chest, lifting me up.
“What?” I said, unable to hide the disappointment in my voice.
His lips twitched. “A shirt for a shirt. It’s only fair.”