Page 97 of Dear Mr. Brody
His forehead rested on my shoulder, the heat of his body stealing away any lingering chill from the air. “It feels too soon to think it, but I hope it’s you too.”
We stood like that, breathing each other in, neither of us ready for that fucking reality pulling the hands on the clock.
“Can I make you breakfast before you go?” I asked, and he lifted his head with a dopey grin.
“I will always say yes to food.”
Laughing, I let go of his waist and turned into the bedroom. “Do you have time?”
“No, and yes. Rachel won’t care if I’m late. I’m not technically working today anyway.”
I pulled out a pair of underwear from my dresser drawer and slipped them on. “And the new director will be there?”
“Chance,” he said, slipping into his pants. He didn’t have on underwear. And now I’d be thinking about that all day. Perfect. “I met him on Thursday, seems decent enough. He’s worried about the cost of the play, even though we told him we’ll get sponsors.”
He sniffed his shirt and wrinkled his nose.
“Want to borrow one of mine?” I asked, opening another drawer, I pulled out a simple blue cotton t-shirt and held it up.
“Thanks. I’m already having to go commando all day. Which is weird as fuck.”
Or sexy as fuck.
“I could lend you a pair of—”
“That’s okay,” he laughed. “I draw the line at wearing another man’s underpants.”
“But you’re okay with what you did with your tongue last night.”
“Hey… I have standards.” He took the shirt from my hands. “And don’t act like you didn’t like what I did to your ass last night.” Parker leaned in for a kiss. Once, twice and he sighed. “I can’t think about that, or I’ll never leave, and I really want you to cook me breakfast.”
His laugh made my stomach warm.
“Get dressed, I’ll make you eggs.”
“Of all the dirty talk, you picked my favorite kind.”
“If that’s true, what would you say if I asked to make you dinner tonight?”
“I’ll be back at seven.”
I pulled into the driveway of my parents’ house. I hadn’t planned on coming over today, but after Parker left, my brother had called and invited me over to their place for lunch. Apparently, Owen had some news he wanted to share with our family. I’d immediately called my gossipy-as-hell sister to see if she had any intel on said news. I’d hope it wasn’t that he was moving away for a job. I hardly saw him as it was. If he left Atlanta, I didn’t think we’d ever see him again.
Depressed by the thought, I stared at the red brick house we grew up in. It was one of the older homes in Milton, on the smaller side, but I loved it. I’d hoped to find something like it when I’d looked for houses after my divorce. This place, my family, they’d always be my home. On my way over, I’d thought about sharing my own news, and decided that I would. I wanted them to know about Parker. Maybe not all the details, but that I was finding myself, dating a great guy whom I hoped they wanted to maybe meet someday. Deep down, way below all my nervous anxiety, I knew my parents. I knew this house and its cluttered shelves and dusty family photos. Dad’s books and Mom’s old French romances. She’d been a stay-at-home, peanut-butter-and-jelly kind of mom, and my dad, he’d always wanted to make sure we understood how important it was to learn, teaching us like we were one of his pupils at Emory. They’d accept me. The words rang true in my head, and as I was about to open the door, my sister knocked on the window.
I almost jumped out of my skin.
“Shit, Olive.”
“Are you hiding?” she asked, grinning. “Can I hide with you?”
She stood back as I opened the door. “You really have no idea what Owen has up his sleeve? The whole twin-to-twin thing isn’t ringing any bells?”
“Nothing. It’s unnerving.” She linked her arm through mine as we made our way to the front door. “Do you think he’s moving?”
“Shit, that’s what I thought too.”
We stopped, staring at his car parked in the drive. “He can’t move. Mom and Dad would be devastated.”