Colt
Didn’t sleep a wink.
And at seven o’clock in the morning, I was first in the door of Anette’s Bakery for a batch of fresh, warm cinnamon rolls.
Now it’s seven-thirty and I’m parked in the driveway, staring up at the window that I’m pretty sure leads to Whit’s bedroom.
Full of regret over not asking for a key to her place, because I know she’s not a morning person, and I’d love to crawl into bed with her.
Pull her into me and inch my fingers up under the oversized T-shirt she’s probably wearing.
I look at Betty in the passenger seat. She’s unamused. Likely thinking about snuggling up to her kid.
“Don’t worry, Betty Spaghetti. They’re ours for good now.
” I scoop my finger through the swirl of whipped cream on top of my coffee and present it to her as a reward for patience.
As if she hasn’t already inhaled a puppuccino.
“Lots of sleepovers in our future. Maybe one day we’ll even get to live together. ”
She barks. My sentiments exactly.
When another ten minutes passes with no sign of life inside the house, I announce that I’m going to call Whit. If she’s mad, I know a few ways I can make it up to her.
Betty blows a huff from her nose as I unlock my cell phone and tap on Whit’s profile. Still listed as Future Wife because, if I’m being honest with myself, even when she pushed me away—when my family had me questioning everything—deep down, I knew she was it for me.
A very groggy Whit answers on the third ring, whispering into the phone with a sleepy rasp in her voice.
Whether it’s me or the coffee that convinces her to come downstairs and open the door, I’m not sure, but the minute that front door clicks and I’m stepping inside, everything in my life feels right again.
Whit barrels into me, squeezing her arms around my waist and tucking her head under my jaw.
I was right about the oversized T-shirt for pajamas—although the mystery of whether there’s anything underneath is a fun surprise.
This is home. With Betty taking the stairs two at a time to get to her boy, and Whit’s warm body against me.
“Morning, beautiful.” Trying not to drop the box of rolls or spill coffee all over my girl, I slowly extend a foot behind me to tap the front door shut. “How did you sleep?”
“Would’ve been better with you here.”
“Same goes for me. I was up before the sun, counting down the minutes until I could come over. Been sitting outside for over half an hour waiting for the right time to wake you up.”
Stepping back, she takes the tray of drinks from my hand. Sunshine pours out of her eyes when she smiles at me. “Anytime is right when you, coffee, and cinnamon rolls are involved.”
“Well, damn. I’ll remember that for next time.” After losing my boots, I follow her into the kitchen. And nearly trip over a pair of Jonas’s sneakers, thanks to the way her shirt hem shifts as she walks, revealing cheeky black panties underneath.
Plunking the food down, my hands are finally free to touch her. And boy, do they waste no time sliding underneath her shirt as she backs herself up against the kitchen island. I toy with the top of her underwear, then dance my fingertips down the crease of her right thigh.
“That won’t be necessary.” Her head tips, brown and pink hair fanning over her shoulder, and her neck gently stretches open. “Jonas and I talked the entire way home…. Expect a sleepover invite when he sees you.”
I kiss the curve of her neck, edging my touch under the waistband of her panties and forcing a slow roll of her hips. “And I’m sleeping in your bed during this sleepover?”
A soft hum vibrates from her throat. “Doubt we’ll do much sleeping.”
“God, I love you,” I mumble into her hair, dusting gentle kisses over her goosebump-covered skin.
Whit’s hands land square on my chest to push me away, expelling all the air from my lungs. My heart sits in wait at the back of my throat. Her eyes search mine—glassy pools of green cratered by widening pupils. The desire and trust and love in her eyes flattens me.
Her shaky palm moves to cradle the back of my neck, pulling me close enough her soothing voice melts over my lips. “I love you.”
I’m so far gone for this girl; forever lost in her inescapable orbit.
I kiss her again, pinning her between my sturdy body and the counter, ardent in my need to touch and kiss every inch of her.
She curls into my arms, moaning into my mouth and spiking my blood pressure with the slow drag of her fingernails down my spine.
We’re so lost in each other, the thud of feet overhead goes unnoticed.
As does the sound of a creaking bedroom door, Betty’s panting breath and nails skittering over the floor, and Jonas’s trudging down the stairs.
“Gross.” His disgusted tone pierces through the fog and breaks us apart immediately.
Whit licks her lips, chest rising and falling with a rough exhale through parted, kiss-swollen lips. She and I grin at each other like the pair of love-drunk idiots we are.
“Sorry, dude.” I steal a glance over Whit’s shoulder at the kid stumbling half-asleep into the kitchen. “I brought breakfast.”
As if he hasn’t homed in on the box already.
Whit spins around to face Jonas, asking him about his sleep and lacing our fingers together to keep me close.
I’m starting to think it was easier when we were pretending to be friends.
At least then I wasn’t expected to partake in casual conversation while her ass is pressed against my crotch in the middle of the kitchen.
“Cinnamon rolls?” He opens the box to confirm the still-warm cinnamon rolls are inside, all sticky and soft and coated in enough cream cheese frosting to give somebody a cavity.
I nod. “The sugary breakfast of champions.”
His lips smack together as he bites off a particularly large chunk, eyes flitting between me and his mom. Watching the way my hand shifts from holding Whit’s to resting on her waist as she leans to grab her coffee. He may not be saying anything, but his eyes are.
He swallows, propping an elbow on the countertop. “Thought maybe you wouldn’t bring them, since you’re officially on mom’s team now…and she hates when I have too much sugar for breakfast.”
Whit rolls her eyes as she turns to stick her cardboard cup in the microwave.
“Told you before—there’s no teams.”
“That was before Mom kissed you and stole your soul.”
Whit laughs, twisting her hair into a bun on the top of her head before letting it fall around her shoulders again. “Is that how that works?”
“No soul stealing, no teams…unless we’re talking about video games.” My lips roll together, and I look over at Whit. “Hate to break it to you, honey. Jonas and I are still a team when it comes to gaming.”
Jonas gives me a frosting-coated thumbs-up, his eyes locked in on Whit with an intimidating stare.
“Oh, I’m so scared,” Whit says sarcastically. She settles back in at my side, grabbing my forearm and slinging it around her again.
Turns out, I like this new relationship status a lot more. My girl’s clingy, and I have zero problem touching her every second of the day.
After a minute of silence, Jonas pipes up again. “When you sleep over, are you going to go buy cinnamon rolls in the morning? Or is this only when you come over for breakfast?”
“Is that the make-or-break for whether I’m allowed to spend the night?”
“I mean,” he says with a shrug. “If you’re gonna be hanging around, you gotta make yourself useful.”
“Jonas.” Whit scrunches her nose, scolding him.
I bite back a smile. “Noted. Cinnamon rolls are a requirement for every sleepover.”
Jonas pops the last bite into his mouth, noisily licking the residue from each finger. He ignores the napkin Whit slides across the counter, instead wiping his damp fingers on his shirt. “You wanna stay here tonight?”
I catch the way his eyes flick to his mom, in need of some reassurance after whatever they talked about last night.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “You think you can handle a rematch in that fishing game, or are you scared I’ll kick your butt again?”
He snorts. “Please. I let you win last time. You’re old. I felt bad.”
Whit shakes her head, muttering something about male egos and baked goods under her breath.
“If your mom’s okay with it, I’m good to stay.”
Whit nods, quiet, but there’s a soft look on her face that does more than words ever could. The glossiness in her eyes shimmers in the dappled sunlight streaming through the windows.
And just like that, the kitchen feels warmer. Less like a morning visit. More like something solid. Something that’s going to stick.