Page 107 of Checking It Twice
Maybe this is one of them.
Chapter Forty-Three
Domestic Bliss
Clare
Three days.
Three days of Mitchell Drake acting like I might disappear if he lets me out of his sight for more than five minutes. Three days of waking up wrapped around him like he’s my personal space heater, of coffee that’s already perfect when I stumble to the kitchen, of him finding increasingly creative reasons why I absolutely cannot go back to my own apartment.
“You’re the one who said you like my coffee machine better,” he’d said yesterday.
“The Wi-Fi here is faster for your work calls,” he’d argued the day before.
This morning’s excuse: “But I already made your lunch.”
I stare at the brown bag sitting on his kitchen counter, my name written across it in his messy handwriting. Inside, I know there’s a sandwich cut diagonally because he noticed I eat them that way, fruit that’s perfectly ripe, and probably some expensive chocolate he picked up yesterday when we walked past that boutique shop.
The man packed my lunch like we’re married.
And the terrifying part? I love it.
“This is insane,” I tell him, but I’m already reaching for the bag.
“What’s insane?” He appears behind me, arms sliding around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder. And I have to resist the urge to melt back against his chest.
“This. You. The fact that I haven’t been to my own apartment in three days.”
“You went yesterday. We picked up more clothes.”
“That doesn’t count. You drove.”
His laugh rumbles against my back. “Are you complaining?”
I should be. This is moving too fast, crossing lines I swore I’d never cross again. I’m basically living with a man I’ve been officially dating for seventy-two hours. I basically showed up for our first date and never went home. I doubt that’s healthy behavior. This entire thing is probably a giant red flag. But I love it… so it’s hard to complain.
Instead, I turn in his arms and kiss him, soft and slow.
“No,” I admit against his mouth. “I’m not complaining.”
“Good. Because I leave for California tomorrow and I want every minute I can get with you before then.”
Right. The road trip. Three games in five days, which means he’ll be gone for almost a week. The thought makes something clench uncomfortably in my chest.
“It’s just a few days,” I say, more to convince myself than him.
“Just a few days,” he agrees, but his arms tighten around me like he’s thinking the same thing I am—that a few days feels like too long.
This is what scares me. Not the intensity, not how fast we’re moving, but how natural it feels. How easy it is to let him take care of me, make me coffee, pack my lunch. And don’t even get me started on how this man takes care of me in the bedroom… it is next level.
“Mitchy,” I start, then stop, not sure how to voice what I’m thinking.
“What?”
“What are we doing here?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with everything we haven’t said yet. Because we’ve been existing in this bubble of domestic bliss, but we haven’t defined anything. Haven’t talked about what this means beyond not wanting to be apart.
