Page 20 of The Snuggle Is Real

Buddy looks at Malcolm, who holds up his hands. "I stopped arguing with her a decade ago."

Buddy grunts and cuts me a slice. It's enormous.

Then he turns to Malcolm. "What do you want?"

"Two eggs over easy, wheat toast."

Malcolm has been ordering that same breakfast since the day I met him. I stick my fork into the pie. “Why do you suppose caramel has never entered the conversation?” I muse. “Though never mind, caramel is just a topping or an ingredient. It’s not a fruit.”

His answer is a robust sigh.

I lick the tines of my fork.

Now he makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. I glance over.

Oh God. Malcolm is watching me lick my fork with a very heated expression. I drop the fork with a clatter. It bounces off of my plate and skitters across the counter.

Lucy’s hand creeps out and reaches for the fork.

"Lucy," Buddy says.

"Hmm?" She sips her tea serenely.

"Leave it." Buddy grabs the fork before she can snatch it and hands me a new one.

“You have a little—” Malcolm reaches out and swipes a pie crumb from the corner of my mouth.

His hand is warm. Like his chest was when I woke up sprawled across it.

That’s when I realize I can’t pretend the morning didn't happen.

I can't pretend I didn't want it to.

And that's a rule three violation I'm keeping entirely to myself.

Chapter Six

Malcolm

The Wanted Fall Fest is not an efficient use of anyone's time.

I say this as a man who loves this town. But there's no traffic flow on the square. There's no signage. The kettle corn line blocks the entrance to the hay maze, which blocks the path to the games, which forces everyone to walk past the pie-off tent, where Miss Bettie is stationed with a clipboard and a pair of reading glasses and the air of a woman who knows exactly who voted pumpkin.

Emily loves every inch of it.

I love every inch of Emily.

So here I am.

Sweating even though it’s October and buying Emily everything her heart desires.

Which so far has been more baked goods and yet another cup of coffee, this one pumpkin spiced to within an inch of its life. I could smell it when I handed her the cup.

She initially protested me buying her anything.

“You have to let me pay for stuff or I’ll look like a dick,” I told her. “We’re a couple, remember?”

“Right,” she had said, and given me a look that was totally indecipherable.