Space (Laws of Physics #2)(64)

“That sounds great. I guess I am a little cold,” she said, her lips now a shade of purple. “If I’m cold, I love anything hot.”

“Me too,” I said, my voice rough.

Something hot would be more than appreciated, it would be necessary, especially after the cold shower I was about to take.





As she dried off, I wrapped my towel firmly around my waist, and then walked Mona to her room, relieved to find she’d brought a huge bathrobe to cover herself, and not just because she was cold.

We agreed to meet in the kitchen, drink something hot, and talk.

I didn’t care what we talked about, I just needed to hear her speak, about anything. I suspected the last time we’d had a meaningful, genuine conversation was after I’d taken her to Anderson’s Bookshop in Chicago. Now I wanted to know how much of that dinner conversation had been the real her, and how much had been Mona pretending to be Lisa.

I wanted to believe she’d been 100 percent herself, but I didn’t know.

Mona was already in the kitchen by the time I’d arrived, pulling spices out of the cabinet. She looked up as I walked in.

“Hi,” she said, swallowed, and gave me a small smile.

“Hey,” I said, giving her a much larger one, and crossed to her.

I watched her carefully as I approached, how she reached for and gripped the counter behind her, how she tensed, but also lifted her chin, her eyes on my mouth.

She wanted to be kissed? Wonderful. In fact, fantastic.

Bending my neck, I gently slid our noses together—she’d liked that in the pool—and pressed my body and my lips to hers. Soft. So soft. Velvet and satin and heat.

A tension I didn’t know I’d been carrying relaxed, and my mind quieted. Kissing her, I wanted more, but I also calmed. A new kind of restlessness surfaced. Anticipation.

The goalposts were moving: Talking without anger. Honesty. Forgiveness. Touching. Kissing. What’s next? I couldn’t wait to find out.

Immediately, she also relaxed, lips parting, and she sighed. Mona’s arms encircled my neck, and I kissed her again, this time catching her bottom lip lightly between my teeth. I licked it, loving how slippery and hot and delicious she tasted.

She moaned—arching, pressing, straining—a hitching breath, a needy sound, and I knew it was time to back off.

Removing my hands from her body, I placed them on the counter behind her. But I wasn’t ready to cede our closeness. Lowering my face to her neck, I whispered, “What are you making?”

“Hot chocolate,” she whispered in return, tilting her head to the side, exposing her soft neck to me, her hands sliding to my biceps. “Do you want some? Or do you want tea?”

“Which do you prefer?” Unable to help myself, I placed a hungry kiss where her graceful shoulder met her equally graceful neck, inhaling something mild, and sweet like cream. “You smell good.”

“It’s just soap.” She was still whispering, and every time I spoke against her skin her body arched in a lithe, reflexive movement. She continued, “And I love both tea and hot chocolate. But I have to be in the mood for hot chocolate, and I am, so I’m making it.”

“I’ll have what you’re having.” I placed one more kiss just under her jaw, and then pushed myself away. She smelled too good, she felt too good, she tasted sublime. I could’ve spent all day with my nose in her neck, her body flexing and rubbing against mine. But the frenzy between us, the urge to touch and be touched, didn’t need to be stoked. We needed space, and conversation.

Gathering a steadying breath, I turned from her, closed my eyes to gather myself, and reluctantly crossed to the stools at the end of the island.

Place granite between you. Good idea.

The stool creaked under my weight and I watched Mona move around the kitchen, a little wrinkle between her eyebrows. She pulled out a can opener and a can of sweetened condensed milk, setting both in front of me.

“Will you open that, please?”

“Sure.” I was happy to. “What’s this for?”

“For the hot chocolate.” Mona placed a saucepan on the gas range, the burner clicking three times before catching.

“You use sweetened condensed milk?”

“Yes. I also use unsweetened cocoa powder, which is why I use the sweet milk. This isn’t my favorite hot chocolate recipe, but we have all the ingredients, so . . . ”

“You have hot chocolate recipes?” I grinned. “What’s wrong with the powdered stuff?”

“Nothing. But I like to make the good stuff.”

I finished opening the can and pushed it toward her. “You make the good stuff every time?”

She grabbed the can and scraped out the thick liquid with a spatula. “Yes.”

“Fancy,” I teased.

Her eyes lifted, connected with mine, and she promptly returned to her task. “I rarely have hot chocolate, so I want to make it count.”

Considering this, I watched her place the ingredients into the saucepan—the milk, the cocoa, cinnamon, cardamom, orange zest, a pinch of salt—and a thought occurred to me.

I hadn’t decided whether or not to share the thought when she said, “You look like you want to say something.”

“I was just thinking.” I tugged on my beard, just under my bottom lip. “I’m not saying this is the case, but maybe you only like having hot chocolate so rarely because you only drink the kind that requires a lot of work and cleanup.”