Fluffy(65)

Inspiration strikes. “Remember that promise you said you'd give me?”

“Promise?”

“Promise we’ll never speak of the eggplant again.”

He looks down at his package. “I… can’t make that promise. It likes to speak its own language.”

I swoon a little.

“Well, then, how about we just don’t talk about it now?”

“Deal.” I stand on tiptoes and kiss him lightly. The eggplant stays quiet.

“Now that is a much better way to invite me in,” he says, stepping across the threshold into the living room. “I brought dessert.”

“You brought brownies?”

He holds up a small white paper bag. “How did you guess?”

“I can smell.”

“And a pint of ice cream and some sauces.” He also has a plastic grocery bag. Walking into my apartment like he already lives here, he puts the ice cream in the freezer, takes out a small box of baked goods, and folds the bag, setting it next to my coffee maker.

“Why? I–I made dessert already. Pots de crème.”

Will comes back to me, reaching for an embrace. “Because,” he says, kissing me on the cheek, lips so tempting in my ear, “I want to be clear: I’m a sure thing when it comes to dessert, Mallory. This date doesn’t end before that. You told me you never make it to dessert. I'm here to break that streak.”

I laugh. “You're not some guy I met online and we're not on a first date. We've had dessert numerous times now.”

“No. Third date.”

He lets the words hang in the air. I know exactly what he means. Damn that Perky.

“Third date give or take ten to fourteen years,” I venture.

His turn to laugh. “Excellent point.”

“Good. Because I’m a sure thing, too.”

“Then how about we add breakfast to the food lineup?” Self-assurance radiates from him. It’s a huge turn-on.

“You want to spend the night?”

“And the morning.”

“I'm not sure I have enough coffee to share.”

He laughs. I don't. My heart thumps so hard inside my ribs, like a marimba player in a jazz group.

I knew tonight was the night.

I didn't realize tomorrow morning was in the mix, too.

But of course it is. Why wouldn't it be? This isn't just sex. It never was. Will isn't here for a booty call. We aren't exploring dating.

What we're testing is the long haul.

The long game.

“I don't generally let guys stay and use up my coffee.”

“Is that a euphemism for some freaky position in bed? 'Use up my coffee'?”

“No.”

“Your coffee is that good?”

“I guess you'll have to spend the night to find out.”

“I don't want a cup of pity coffee, Mallory.”

The song changes from an energetic Lindsey Stirling violin ballad to Stephen Swartz's “Hello.” The beat takes over, new ukulele sound plucking my past emotions and forming a duet with the very intense present as Will kisses me, slow and deep, our hips meeting in a sway that bends time itself.

Breaking the kiss, he whispers, “Am I coffee-worthy?”

“You're everything-worthy.”

“That's my line, Mal. You're stealing all my good lines.”

“Then make me stop talking.”

“How do I do that?”

“I'm pretty sure you have a few clever ideas. You were salutatorian, after all. Rhodes Scholar. You're kinda smart.”

“So I've been told.” The smile he gives me–serene, excited, full of promise–intensifies with passion as we hold each other's gaze.

I smell it before I can put words to it. “DINNER IS BURNING!” I scream, fleeing to the stove, where the onions have gone half black and the red pepper strips look like blood on tar.

“It's charbroiled,” Will announces, chin on my shoulder as I use the spatula to scrape up what I can and evenly distribute the vegetables.

“You're diplomatic.”

“I would never insult another vegetable. They're my people. Purple eggplant, red pepper–we stick together.”

An elbow to his gut is my response.

He laughs, moving gracefully across my kitchen to find a bottle of white wine in the fridge. It's already open, stopper in place. Without asking, he looks through my cabinets, finds two wine glasses, and asks, “Wine?”

“Perfect.”

Part of the appeal of gas stoves comes in being able to regulate the heat visually, the distribution easier to calibrate when you can see it. Will's body is the same way. Our fingers brush as he hands me the wine, the stir fry saved by my quick movements, the marinated chicken ready to add in a moment.

Steam rises from the rice cooker on the counter behind Will, the aroma of butter and saffron making me smile.

“Smart, sexy, centered, and a good cook. I found the whole package.” Holding his wine glass aloft in a toast, he waits until I walk to him, the glasses ringing in approval as we cheer each other, sip once, then kiss.

Beep!

The rice cooker is done.

“Can I help?” Will drinks more wine, then sets down the glass, looking at my midsection. “Do you have another apron?”