Page 56 of The Do-Over Girl

She looks to the oven. “Dinner—”

“Fuck dinner.” I stand and pull her into my arms. “What else did you have in mind?” I hold her tight against me, my heart beating hard against my chest wall, scared that I might have pushed too far, angry that I made her sad. I hold her gaze with mine.

“I don’t understand you, Nash. Do you want me or don’t you? Do you want to put the past behind us, or don’t you?”

Because I’m relieved, lucky that she didn’t slap my face again, I answer her the only way I’m capable of right now, not being one for a lot of flowery words. I kiss her, taking her face in my hands, and I devour her, giving her everything, unloading all my emotions down her throat, hoping she’ll understand.

* * *

In my rush totake Kali to my bed, we never had a chance to eat. My stomach churns in a hollow plea, speaking loud enough for Kali—and perhaps others down the street—to hear. She sits up, rising from her nook against my good shoulder.

“Food—the chicken.” She blanches slightly and then calms. “I’m pretty sure I turned off the oven… We’d have smelled the smoke by now, right?”

I take a lock of her mussed hair, the sight of her sexy disarray making me forget all about food—for a minute.

“No smoke alarms. Good sign. We’ve been…distracted for quite a while.” Picking up my phone, I check the time. Then I blow out a whistle. She watches me with her sleepy eyes, still too sexy for my food motivation to kick my butt out of bed.

“Late? How late?”

“Does it matter? Tomorrow is Sunday. We can stay here in bed all the way until Monday morning if we want. I mean, if we could convince Mrs. P to slide a tray of food under the door once in a while.”

She laughs, and then, much to my chagrin, she jumps from the bed, and while I watch the tantalizing jiggle of her breasts, she reaches for her robe to cover her magnificence. “Damn.” Shit, I just said that out loud.

She gives me a sassy smile and beckons me to join her. “Let’s go downstairs and eat.”

“Do I need to dress?”

She picks up a pillow from the floor and tosses it at me.

We head down to the kitchen in stealth mode. I conceded to wearing sweats and a T-shirt only because I don’t want to give Mrs. P a heart attack on the remote chance that she happens upon us. Hell, she could have the kitchen alarmed up for all we know.

“This chicken is good,” I manage to say while I focus on devouring the meal, and she mostly watches me from across the table. When I finish with the food on my plate, I notice she has only eaten half of hers. Without asking permission, I slide her plate in front of me.

She continues her stare, shaking her head, that same lopsided smile in place, and if I had to guess, I’d think she’s having a hard time staying in the present right now. I put the fork full of chicken I’m about to eat back down on my plate and heave a sigh.

“What?” I ask.

“Why didn’t you answer my text or my call? Back then?”

“Fuck,” I mutter, and her words drag me back with her to one of the most painful times of my life. When I feel pain, like any wounded animal, anger rises up to numb it. But I lash it back down because, if we’re going there, I’m going to make it count.

“I swear I never got a text or call from you, Kali. If I had, I would have answered and been so happy. I’m embarrassed at how happy that would’ve made me. Fuck.” I pause, looking down, and then I look up at her and bare myself, take the last piece of armor from my soul and uncover my heart, expose it to whatever punishment—or gifts—she has to offer.

“I was so fucking hurt, I was destroyed. I never felt the way I felt about you ever again, about any girl. To this fucking day.”

She freezes, then her face collapses, sinking into such sadness that I want to take back my fucking honesty, the brutal accusation of it. But I can’t.

“So…” Her whisper trails off in a question, and her eyes plead for mercy.

“So, now I’m cautious.”