Full Package(24)

I take a tissue and wipe it away. “You don’t have to deal with things the way I deal with things. You’re you, and you should deal with them as you need to.”

She takes a deep breath and nods. “I wish I could just shut things off. Like you can.”

“It’s a blessing and a curse,” I joke.

“It’s a gift,” she says emphatically.

“Well, look. I have to separate myself to some degree. I can’t react to things the way a patient would, because if I did then I wouldn’t be very good at taking care of them, right?”

She nods as I wrap an arm around her and guide her to the couch.

“I’m sorry I gave you a hard time,” she whispers.

I shake my head. “Ha. That was hardly a hard time. And if you do decide to give me a hard time, I can handle it.” I puff out my chest and hit it. “Steel, baby. I’m steel. I can take it.”

She smiles, a rueful little grin.

“But look. Don’t get frustrated that emotions spill over for you. It’s who you are, and it’s part of what makes you . . .”—I pause, looking for the right words—“one of the most amazing people I know.”

She swats my shoulder. “Oh stop.”

“Hey, you are,” I say. Then I take a beat and quirk up my lips. “Honestly, though, I thought you were just having your period.”

“You ass,” she says.

“I totally am an ass. But this ass served dinner.” I gesture to the meal. “Dine with me?”

“Why, I thought you’d never ask.”

As we dig into the lasagna, my belly thanks her. I point with my fork to the plate. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“You say that about everything I make.”

“And I mean it about everything you make.”

“Thank you,” she says with a smile. “Oh, and in case you were wondering, my period was last week, and you didn’t even notice.”

“Damn, you’re stealthy in the hormonal reaction department.”

She nudges her shoulder into mine. “Sorry again. Do you forgive me?”

I meet her eyes, and for a second I’m tempted to run my hand through her hair, to brush my lips to hers, to kiss her softly to reassure her that we’re all good.

Then I snap out of it.

Even so, I wish I could tell her the truth. That it’s getting harder for me to pull off this trick. That she challenges my ability to compartmentalize like no one and nothing ever has. All my instincts tell me to kiss her, to touch her, to take her to bed.

But man can’t let instincts rule him.

Mind over man, I remind myself.

The good news is when she checks Yelp again that night, her bakery still has a sterling average. I tell her the woman was all talk. When she kisses me good night—on the cheek—I clench my fists as a reminder to keep it all in check. As she turns on her heel and walks into her bedroom, my eyes don’t stray from her, and that’s the problem. It’s become all too clear that these separate drawers are getting messier every day.

I’m not sure how to keep them closed.

But I vow to try.





14





Over the next few days, I recommit to my mission. My focus is on building and sustaining the friendship wing of the house of Josie and Chase, not the lust corridor.

Mostly, I succeed. I monitor Yelp and gleefully report that the troll never trolled. I pick up the tissues she likes when she runs low. And I offer my taste buds to be the guinea pig for her grapefruit macaron. She was right—it’s amazing.

But all it takes is one moment for me to relapse.

She’s in her bedroom, and the hallway is steamy, since she takes showers the temperature of the surface of Mercury. It’s sauna level as I head into the bathroom to brush my teeth before I leave for an early morning bike ride with Max.

When I finish, she calls out to me, “Hey, Chase, are you still in the bathroom? I forgot to put my body lotion on while I was in there.”

“Which kind? I’ll bring it to you.”

“The black cherry one,” she shouts. “Top shelf on the wooden cabinet.”

Oh, that’s another thing about living with a woman. They commandeer all available bathroom real estate. My sister, Mia, was like this, too, so I learned as a teenager how to survive with very little space. Here with Josie, I’ve managed to claim squatter’s rights to a corner of the medicine chest where my deodorant and shaving cream live. The rest? She’s encroached on all of it.

I grab the lotion, putting my cherry-scented fantasy of dragging my tongue between the heavenly valley of her breasts into a chaste drawer, the same one where I keep thoughts of kittens, puppies, and baby ducks. Proximity to the cuteness will rub off and turn the naughty to wholesome, right?

Her bedroom door is open, but I knock anyway. “Come in,” she says, and when I open the door all the way, I’m not ready to take this test. No fucking way can I pass it.

“Did you need a towel to go with the dishtowel you’re using?” I ask, because humor production is the only way I can deal with the fact that she has the world’s tiniest towel cinched around her tits.

I’m not strong enough. I’m going to wave the white flag any second.