Page 23 of The Weight of Love
That’s not good. Sounds jealous.
“I have absolutely thought about you. I’m not saying in what context because, as my friend, that would be inappropriate. And no, there hasn’t been anyone else since, not that it should technically matter.”
“Are we really going to do this pie thing?”
Such a dramatic change of subject. I can’t keep up with his mood changes.
“What do you mean? Yes, I’m packing up pies now and was going to head that way.” I say, a bit thrown off.
“You’re going to drive an hour here and back to bring me pie?”
“I’ve driven longer to get things to friends.”
We end the call, and I start heading out in the car. The drive-up gives me far too much time to think, accompanied by songs that feel all too suggestive now.
I’ve decided to respect his boundaries only to be friends, so I don’t bother with makeup or try to look nice—just the usual hot-mess express.
I pull into the hotel’s parking lot, where they put him up, and see him waiting for me on the sidewalk.
Those damn gray sweatpants. They hang off the perfect v of his hips far too well and cling to everything perfectly.
He hugs me, a tight, full-body hug that leaves me wanting more. Then he helps me get the pies out of the passenger seat. We climb into the elevator, and I move to the side, trying to give him more space, but he steps in right next to me. Giving me a quick wink. Memories of the last elevator ride we shared to my office are crashing through my mind.
Damn it. I’m going to have to eat a lot of pie to avoid caving in. We’re friends. That’s it.
Chapter Ten
Clark
“Come on in, make yourself at home.”
I set the pies she brought on the counter, fighting the urge to ditch manners and dive in. They were apple, cherry, pumpkin, and cheesecake-like and utterly tempting.
I’m eyeing the pies, debating whether to pick one or throw caution to the wind and devour them all, and tossing my day’s meal plan out the window.
“You can have a slice of each, you know. If it’s really that hard to decide.”
Catching her eye, I feel unexpectedly sheepish, as if being found ogling the pies is more embarrassing than if she’d seen me admiring her figure.
“I-uh, well, there’s a lot of options here.”
“Forks?”
I point in the direction of the drawer. I’m painfully aware of her proximity in the small space.
She returns with forks in hand and swings herself onto the counter beside the pies. Legs dangling, she leans forward to lift the lid off the cheesecake-esque treat. “My favorite,” she announces, pulling back the cover. It’s almost good for you—sweetened with just honey, and every slice has seventeen grams of protein.
Marry me? No…. Well, perhaps? Stop… But for crying out loud, she brings me pie and recites the macros. Aside from being utterly intimidating, she might just be the perfect woman.
Stella leans closer to dig the fork straight into the pie but avoids brushing against me. Thoughts of spreading her legs open and taking her right there on the kitchen counter are parading through my mind. The fact that the counter fixes our significant height difference isn’t lost on me.
She closes her eyes and makes a satisfied sound over the pie. My pulse is quickening.
Just pie. No sex. You can do this. Focus.
I dig my fork in aggressively, take a bite of the same pie, and instantly regret my choice.
“Fuck me, that’s delicious. What is this?”