Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dice
You don’t have to look so happy about it.
The house smells like coffee and bacon when I get back from my jog. The cold air, the calm of the waterfront, the pounding of my shoes on the boardwalk were still not enough to cool my head.
Last night was intense. Giving control to Lot had been more than just physical. It cracked something open in me. Something deep.
I kick off my runners and enter the kitchen.
She’s standing at the stove in my faded Spider-Man tee and not a damn thing underneath it but those plump, bare legs and red-painted toes.
Bacon sizzles in the pan while she whisks something in a bowl, the contents flying everywhere.
Queenie’s posted up under her like a miniature Hoover, catching the drops.
I watch, grinning. A damn fool. But that’s how soft she’s got me. I see her and all my insides turn to liquid. I don’t know exactly what that feeling is. Or maybe I do, and I’m too fucking scared to name it.
“You’re just in time to learn how to make French toast,” she says, pulling me out of my head.
I step beside her. “You cookin’ or redecorating?”
“Ssskt.” She elbows me, and I grab a nice squeeze of her ass before washing my hands and letting her put me to work.
I drain the crispy bacon on a paper towel, snag a strip and feed a piece to her, then drop a corner bit to Queenie. She purrs up at me like I’m her new best friend.
Off to the side, the strawberries are already sliced, glistening like jewels. I stare at them, remembering every detail from last night. “Don’t think I’ll ever see a strawberry in the same way again.”
“You had me out there like some dessert platter.”
“What about you? Riding me until I forgot my own name.”
She glances at me, smirking. “Didn’t hear you complainin’.”
“Couldn’t. Your panties were in my mouth.”
“Damn, we nasty.” She laughs, and I’m already thinking about spreading her out on the table. But she grabs the sourdough loaf she had me pick up from the bakery the other day and pulls out a thick slice. “You dip it into the mixture, just long enough for it to get fully coated but not soggy.”
I follow her instructions, soaking the bread, then she presses it down with the spatula, getting those edges crispy while the center stays soft. Not unlike her.
When the slices are done, Lot tops them with strawberries and puts bacon on the side.
I bring the plates to the table. She grabs the syrup, and we dig in.
“This is really good,” I say, spearing my fork into another piece of toast.
“Since you’re off tomorrow night, I could show you how to cook an easy stir-fry. That way you’re not always ordering out or limited to boxed mac.”
“I was thinking we could go out for dinner. Maybe drive over to Lakehead. There’s an inn that’s supposed to make a mean steak. We could spend the night. I’m sure we can bring Queenie.”
Her eyes squint. “You mean, like a date?”
“What’s the difference if we eat and sleep together here or somewhere else?”
“I guess none.” But we both know there is. “Only thing, I’ve got to get back early Wednesday to take Maurice to physio.”
“Oh, right.” I swallow a bite. “Sunday then. Head up in the afternoon, make a day of it.”
“Sure.” She pauses and looks down at her plate, then she raises her gaze back to mine. “It’ll probably be my last weekend here.”
The fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean?”
“Maurice sees his doctor on Thursday. If he gets the green light to go back to work, I’ll leave next week.”
That hits like a roundhouse kick to the chest. It’s not like I didn’t know this would happen. I just hadn’t let myself feel it. My impulse is to shrug it off and press it down like I did five years ago. But I can’t fake nonchalance, even if I tried. I go for something playful instead.
“How am I supposed to go back to nuked eggs and an empty bed?”
“You know a few cooking basics now. And I doubt your bed will stay empty for long.”
That pisses me all the way off. “You think I’ll have someone lined up the minute you step?”
“Well… maybe not the same day. Gonna need a little mourning period,” she says, attempting to joke, but it doesn’t land with humor.
“Are you serious right now?”
She looks at me, face pinched. “What are you getting mad about?”
“The shit you say.” I stuff another bite of French toast into my mouth. It had been delicious moments ago, but now it tastes like sawdust on my tongue.
“Well, it’s not like you’re going to remain celibate,” she retorts.
“That’s not even the point.”
“What is?”
“Dropping this news on me without warning.”
“You knew I’d be leaving.”
“Not this soon.”
“I said I’d be here for a few weeks, and it’s been that. I have my life to get back to in New York. My work. Projects waiting.”
“What about Queenie?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Mom likes cats. I’ll introduce them, see if it’s a fit.”
“That’s how it is, Lot? Just hand her off like she doesn’t mean a damn thing?” I know I’m projecting. I know I need to calm the fuck down.
Her expression shifts, confusion boiling into anger. “It’s not like that. Why are you giving me shit for no reason?”
“You said I let you go last time like I didn’t care.
And now you’re mad because I do. Make up your mind.
” Appetite gone, I push back from the table, grab my plate, and bring it to the sink.
Heart jackhammering in my chest, I rinse the plate off under the warm water, needing something—anything— to keep moving.
I hate this. Hate feeling this raw. Hate being split open, with all these emotions flooding out. The fear. The want. The goddamn need.
Behind me, the chair scrapes back. Knowing Lot, I half expect her to cuss me out, scoop up Queenie, and disappear from my life again.
But she doesn’t. She steps up to me, her tone soft. “I didn’t expect you to get this upset.”
I shut off the water, take a breath, and turn to her. “I didn’t mean what I said about Queenie. That was low.”
“Yeah, it was.”
I nod, jaw muscle ticking. “The thought of you leaving messed with my head.”
She actually smiles.
“You don’t have to look so happy about it,” I mutter. “I’m gonna miss you like hell, Web.”
“I’m going to miss you too.”
I let that hang in the air before I speak again. “Guess we better make the most of the time you’ve got left.” That’s not what I want to say. What I want to say is that I can’t imagine not waking up to her. But then what? I have nothing real to offer. So I settle for adding, “It wasn’t just sex.”
“It was more for me too.”
The tightness in my chest nearly doubles. I push through it and brush my knuckles down her cheek.
Soft moments aren’t our usual territory. But we stay in it. I draw her against me, and she lets me hold her. We don’t say anything else. I kiss her temple, her cheek, her lips—light, lingering touches, like I’m afraid of breaking this.
She leans in, and the kiss deepens. I lift her onto the counter, hands trailing over her thighs as I step between them. We take our time. No rush. No flash-fire lust. Just soft mouths and slow hands. Like we’re trying to memorize the shape of this moment to keep it with us after we’re apart.
I carry her to the bedroom. As we undress, sunlight filters through the blinds, painting her curves golden. She wraps herself around me, her breathy moans against my neck, her body flowering open, giving herself to me.
Afterward, we lie there, tangled together. She gets up first.
“Going to join me in the shower?”
“Soon as I get my legs back,” I say.
She flashes me one of her rare grins, stopping my heart for a second. “I’ll warm it up for you.”
I don’t move for a minute or two. Her phone charges on the nightstand. The shirt she wore last night hangs off the dresser. Her bonnet peeks out from beneath the pillow. Her scent is on the sheets. On me. She’s everywhere.
And soon, she won’t be.
My phone buzzes. I drag myself up and grab it from my pants pocket. Unknown number. Unease coils in my gut.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?” I repeat.
Then a voice. Same one. Nervous. “…Hello.”
“Who is this?”
“Um… Damon.”
A name this time. “Do I know you?”
“No. I—I’m sorry.”
Click. Dead air.
I stare at the screen, head spinning. I call back. It just rings, leaving me with more questions. And something heavier.
Damon.
The name echoes through my mind, rumbling like a storm in the distance.
One you know is approaching, you just don’t know when it’ll hit.
With the phone still clenched in my hand, I hear the water running in the bathroom.
Lot is singing En Vogue’s “Don’t Let Go,” endearingly off-key.
I want to join her and hold on to her for as long as I can. But I’m stuck on that call.
Who the hell is Damon?
And what does he want?