Well Matched (Well Met #3)(79)

So instead I kissed him, hoping I could say it this way. And from the way he kissed me back, pulling me into his lap and holding me close, he got the message.

That night was the first time my king-size bed had ever felt cozy. I loved the way he tucked me against him as we fell asleep, one arm around my chest. Copping a feel even in his sleep, I thought as I started to fall asleep myself. Typical.

It wasn’t until that last second of consciousness before sleep took me that I realized. He wasn’t groping me. His hand was placed flat on my chest. Over my heart.





Twenty





I woke up the next morning alone. My heart sank, and I closed my eyes against the swell of disappointment that surged through me. For one barely awake moment I wondered if I’d dreamed last night. But no: even though the pillow on the other side of the bed was cold, it had clearly been slept on, and the blankets on that side were pushed toward the middle of the bed. I rolled to my back and heaved a long sigh.

Then I smelled coffee.

The surge of disappointment became a swell of happiness, and not just because I didn’t have to make my own coffee this morning. I climbed out of bed and, after putting on the shorts-and-tank pajamas I’d never bothered to wear last night, I padded toward the kitchen. I didn’t speak at first, I just leaned in the doorway and watched Mitch, his back to me, wearing nothing but the gray sweats he’d worn last night, pouring coffee into two mugs. He moved to the fridge, getting the carton of creamer out of the door and pouring a good dollop into one of the mugs, and the swell of happiness became a little glow in my chest. He remembered how I took my coffee.

I scuffed one foot along the floor, making my presence known as I walked the rest of the way into the kitchen, and he turned.

“Hey, you’re up.” He passed me the mug of coffee he’d put cream in. He didn’t ask if he’d gotten it right; he just knew. On anyone else that confidence would be irritating. On Mitch it was just . . . him.

So I said thank you and took that blissful first sip of coffee, letting the caffeine soak into my system and chase away the rest of the cobwebs in the corners of my brain. Mitch leaned one hip against the counter, sipping from his own mug, and the whole thing felt so domestic. So right. I could get used to this.

What? No. I pushed that thought right the hell out of my brain. We weren’t there yet.

“You want breakfast?” he asked, as though I were the guest. He really did make himself at home, didn’t he? “I usually grab something on the way to Faire, but . . .”

I shook my head and hoisted my mug. “Coffee’s fine. But help yourself.” I nodded toward the fridge. “There’s eggs in there if you need some protein. I mean, I’m no Cindy, but I definitely feel like I had a workout last night.”

Mitch’s laugh was loud and long, something that didn’t happen often in this house, and his laugh made my smile widen. “Believe me, you’re a lot more fun than Cindy.” His good-morning kiss was coffee flavored and I leaned into it, even though black coffee wasn’t usually my thing. “You should come with me to CrossFit sometime,” he said when he straightened up again. “You might like it.”

“Nah, that’s okay.” I finger-combed his sleep-rumpled hair off his forehead, softening my dismissal of his suggestion. “I’m more of a runner.” The admission surprised me even as I said it, because I hadn’t thought of myself as a runner in a long time.

“Oh, yeah?” Interest lit his eyes, which, of course. He was interested in all things sports and fitness, and I hated to disappoint him.

“Well, I was. I used to be, before . . .” I gestured down to my bad leg, and his eyes followed my hand, glancing down for a moment, then back up, bewildered.

“Was there lasting damage?” His brows knit together in concern. “Did the doctors say you can’t?”

“No.” But my voice was uncertain. Because that was true. I remembered that last visit to physical therapy, that last follow-up with the surgeon. Both times, I was told that everything was a go. I should be good as new. But I hadn’t been.

“It’s been what, about three years? You should be able to pick it up again.”

I shook my head, looking away as I put my coffee mug down on the counter. “I tried once, but . . .” Frustration clogged my chest, just like it had that time that I’d gone out on that abortive run. My body had betrayed me and I’d never gotten over it.

“Have you tried lately?” He took a step toward me, his voice gentle like I might spook and run away. “Working back up to previous levels of fitness can be hard to do, but it’s not impossible. Start slow.” His hand stroked up and down my arm, and I found myself leaning into the comfort his touch offered.

“Yeah?”

His smile was intimate and encouraging. “Yeah. You need to ease back into things when it’s been a while. Don’t push yourself too hard or you’ll give up.”

“Good advice.” I had a feeling we weren’t just talking about running anymore, but I also didn’t have the nerve to clarify. That would definitely be pushing myself too hard. So instead I turned back to my coffee while he did the same.

“Hey.” Mitch looked around the kitchen like he was just seeing it for the first time. “You never did the cabinets.”