Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
I cover it with a grunt and go sit at the table before she notices.
But she does notice. She always notices.
She sets the mug down, pours coffee, and then carries two plates of eggs and toast over like it’s normal. Like she’s done it for years. Like this is her kitchen too.
And maybe that’s the part messing with my head the most.
It feels right.
It feels like something I want.
And that scares the hell out of me.
She slides into the seat next to mine—not across, not at a polite distance, but close enough that our knees touch.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Fine.”
She gives me a look that says: stop lying.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, slower, because that’s the version of the truth I’m willing to give.
She takes a bite of toast, watches me silently for a moment, then says, “You’re doing that thing where you stare at the table like it offended you.”
“The table’s innocent,” I say.
She bumps her leg against mine. “Then tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Nothing.”
“Tony.”
I sigh, run a hand through my hair. “I’m adjusting.”
Her brow lifts. “To what?”
I gesture vaguely around the kitchen. “This.”
She blinks. “A kitchen?”
“No,” I say. “You. In it.”
Her cheeks warm.
I keep going because hell, if I stop now I’ll chicken out.
“I’ve been on my own a long time. Even when Tiffany lived here, she was grown, in and out, living her own life. I didn’t share space. Didn’t want to. Didn’t need to.”
Holley sets her fork down, watching me carefully.
“And now,” I admit, “you’re here. Your toothbrush is in my bathroom. Your bag is on my dresser. Your hum is in my walls. And I don’t hate it.”
Her lips soften. “That’s… good?”
“Yeah,” I say roughly. “That’s what scares me.”
She leans closer, hand brushing mine. “Tony, wanting someone in your space doesn’t make you weak.”
“It does to men like me,” I say. “Or it used to.”
She squeezes my fingers once, light, like she’s offering a rope but letting me choose if I grab it.
“Well,” she murmurs, “maybe men like you deserve something soft too.”
I swallow hard.
Before I can answer, someone knocks.
Hard.
I already know who it is.
Smoke.
He doesn’t bother waiting for permission. He jogs in like he owns the place, tosses his keys onto my counter, and reaches for a cup.
Holley stands, already moving to help. “Tiff said you like yours black—”
“Sweetheart,” Smoke says, holding up a hand, “I’m capable of pouring my own damn coffee.”
I glare at him. “Then pour it and leave.”
He smirks. “Jealous, old man?”
“Not old. Not jealous.”
Holley bites back a smile.
Smoke strolls over to the table with his cup. “Tiff says you two are playing house.”
“We are not playing anything,” I growl.
Holley goes very still beside me.
Smoke tilts his head. “Look, it’s not my business—”
“Good,” I interrupt. “Then stop making it your business.”
“But you look happy,” he finishes.
I freeze.
Holley glances at me.
Smoke shrugs. “Tiff says she hasn’t seen you like this since before her mom died. Says you’re softer.”
“Get out of my kitchen,” I say immediately.
“Uh-huh,” he says, completely ignoring me. “So that’s a yes.”
Holley laughs, trying to hide it behind her coffee mug.
I glare at both of them.
Smoke drains his cup, sets it in the sink, and points a finger at me. “Soft looks good on you.”
“Leave,” I growl.
He leaves.
Holley bursts into quiet laughter once the door shuts.
I look at her sideways. “You think this is funny?”
“A little.”
I shake my head, but I can’t stop the tiny smirk tugging at my mouth.
She reaches across the table and traces a line along my forearm, just her fingertip, barely touching me.
“You are softer,” she says gently.
“I’m not,” I start to argue, but she gives me that look—the one that sees through bullshit the way headlights cut through fog.
I exhale.
“Okay,” I admit. “Maybe I am.”
She moves to sit in my lap without asking, without hesitation, and my arms circle around her instinctively. Like my body moves faster than my brain.
She cups my face. “You’re soft with me, Tony. Not with everyone else. That’s not weakness. That’s choosing who you let close.”
My throat tightens.
I rest my forehead against her shoulder. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Yes, you do,” she whispers, stroking the back of my head. “You’re already doing it.”
“I still don’t want marriage,” I warn.
“I didn’t ask you to marry me.”
“And I don’t want you losing independence.”
“Good,” she says. “Because I’m not giving it up.”
“And I don’t want to cage you.”
“You’re not.”
“But I want you close,” I say, voice cracking slightly. “And that makes me feel—”
“Human?”
I huff. “Weak.”
“Human,” she repeats, kissing my temple.
I close my eyes.
She shifts slightly, straddling my thighs, hands sliding up to my jaw. “You don’t have to be hard all the time.”
“I don’t know how not to be.”
“That’s okay,” she murmurs. “Let me help you learn.”
A pulse of something warm and overwhelming hits me square in the chest.
I’m jealous.
I’m domestic.
I’m soft.
And not one ounce of it feels wrong.