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My “girlfriend” stumbles out of my room, squinting against the sunlight of the kitchen. She’s sexy and disheveled and my heart thumps irregularly just looking at her. “I smell bacon.”
“You smell bacon, waffles, coffee and,” I walk her over a cup, putting it into her hands while I kiss her jaw, “delicious. You smell delicious.”
She grunts. “I smell like your soap.”
The memory of her soapy and wet, the water sluicing over slippery skin in the tub, is getting me hard again. “You smell like you. And me. And sex. And my soap. Delicious.”
She’s still squinting at me and who could blame her? I don’t know what I’m saying or doing either. I’m not feeling like myself, exactly. Like some of her starlight is trapped in my chest.
It’s warm and bright, hardly reason to complain, even if the feeling is foreign.
“You made me breakfast?”
“I did.” I gesture to the table and plate us up. “You’ve cooked me plenty of dinners over the last few weeks. It was my turn.”
She drinks her coffee, and I admire how well her cup doesn’t match her dress because she’s not wearing a dress. She’s thrown on one of my t-shirts, and the sight of her in my clothes, in my temporary kitchen, in my borrowed life, is undeniably arousing.
I drag my attention back to her face, and her lips quirk up on one side. “Doc, are you having impure thoughts about me?”
“Yeah, I really am.”
She dips her chin and smiles. It’s a shy, sweet smile and my heart stutters. This woman is going to send me to the cardiologist. “When did I cook you all these dinners you speak of, by the way? I opened a jar for you last night, but that doesn’t really count.”
“I’ve been eating all your frozen dinners, remember? My favorite was the stroganoff. It’s really good.”
She’s trying to hold back a grin. “Yeah? You’ve been eating my cooking? And you liked it?”
“I love your cooking, Stella.”
She’s too endearing when she does her little “aw, shucks” face. But she’s pleased with the compliment, and I really should dole them out more often.
In the next few days. That’s all we have. Don’t forget this is temporary.
I join her at the table, watching her drown her waffle in syrup, resisting the urge to criticize how much sugar she’s about to consume. I need to pay more attention to how often I go straight to critical with her. It’s not just because she’s sensitive to that with the way she feels about her family. It’s also that I don’t like that about myself. The overly critical part of my personality is unattractive.
I want very much to be attractive to Stella.
Which is not smart. We’re short-term. But right now, this morning, I don’t want to think about next week or the future. For right now, I’m eager to live in the present. Something I’m not very good at.
So, I watch her enjoy her soggy waffle and commit this feeling of utter contentment to memory.
“I...haven’t made breakfast for anyone in a really long time.”
She stops chewing and slugs down some coffee. “Really?”
I don’t know why I told her that. It seems foolish now. I guess I wanted her to feel like this is special. To know this, whatever we have, is different for me.
“Well, thank you. It’s great.” She looks down at her plate. “Nobody’s ever made me breakfast before.”
My heart does that tumble again. It’s not even graceful about it. More like a four-year-old executing their first somersault. “Devon not the breakfast-making type? I’m so surprised.”
She does this half laugh thing that tells me she’s not feeling funny. “Devon and I didn’t do sleepovers.”
I reach for her hand.
Devon. That stupid fuck. How could he not have taken better care of Stella? “Devon is an idiot. He didn’t deserve to wake up next to you.” To lighten the mood, I add, “Watching you drool on my pillow is going to be the highlight of my day.”
My sweet, suddenly shy Stella looks up at me through her eyelashes and grins. I can’t stop myself from cupping her face in my hands and kissing her the way I’ve never kissed anyone. It’s not hot or even sweet—it’s seeking. I want to know her. I want her to know me. I need to taste her secrets and give her new ones.
My secrets. Our secrets.
I’ve wanted her from the first time I touched her. But now I want more than her body. But I don’t understand what that means.
We pause, our foreheads resting on each other and this peace steals over me. Peace I usually find only when alone in my kayak on still waters.
There is a rightness singing in my blood. She’s the one is the chorus.
That can’t be right, can it? This woman who makes me crazy can’t possibly be the one who could keep me sane. Keep me grounded and balanced and in the center of contentment.
I open my eyes and look into hers. Does she feel it? Can she see right through me? Does she know where my mind is going? My heart?
Does she care?
She pulls back and stands up abruptly. “I need to go. Get home and change. Don’t want to be late for work. My boss is a real bear about stuff like that.”
She’s out of my kitchen before I can say a word.
And what would I say?
––––––––
PERRY HATES HER OFFICE and has always done as little work as possible in it. Instead, she always practically lived in Coffeehouse, taking client meetings in the very back until they sort of made it her office for her. When it came up for sale, she snatched it up and still does most of her business in the café in addition to owning it.
Coffeehouse is rich with texture and scent—dark roast, brown sugar, loose-leaf tea, ginger, and lemon polish on old wood. It feels like the inside of a wooden boat with its low ceiling, brass and dark wood, floors that creak, and a sense of age and history that takes you to a different time.
At this moment in time, however, Perry is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You want me to what?”
“I want you to remind me that this is going to end badly. Very badly. Please.” Because it’s been going way too well the last few days. Other than me bolting from breakfast the other day anyway.
She pushes my cold brew coffee at me.
“Dr. Anderson comes back on Tuesday. I need to hold on to my heart for a few more days.” Just get through the wedding.
“Perry,” one of her employees interrupts us at the table. “Phone for you.”
“Take a message, please. I need to sort this girl out.”
I take a drink of my coffee until the barista moves on. “Year of Stella,” I remind her.
Perry rolls her eyes. “The Year of Stella is stupid, and so are you if you let him go. You guys have been boffing for days. And he told you he thinks you’re good with kids. And he likes you the way you are. Stella, he’s your boyfriend now. Why do you want to push him away?”
“Fake. Boyfriend.”
“Nobody looks at fake girlfriends the way your fake boyfriend looks at you. He’s got it bad. Just go with it. Stop trying to mess it up.”
I rub my rose quartz worry stone, but don’t feel the usual effects. “He’s leaving soon.”
“Seattle is not that far way. It’s hardly even a commute.” She pulls my coffee away. “I changed my mind. Don’t drink this. You need to relax.”
“I need to get ready for the rehearsal dinner. Did I tell you he’s coming to that? Because he is. And after, he’s going to Ironwing with the guys.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yes, I know. Can we get back to my problem now?”
“So, what happens after the wedding? Have you and Dr. Doolittle talked about it?”
I pull my coffee back across the table. “Not since before Tuesday night. We haven’t talked at all about the fake part of our relationship. We just...”
“Boff.”
“A lot,” I add. “It’s been amazing. I mean, yeah, the sex, but just all of it. I like him too much, Perry.”
“I fail to see how this is a bad thing. Why won’t you let yourself enjoy it?”
I make eye contact, the real kind where we really talk, with her for the first time since I sat down. One has to be careful with looking into her eyes—she ferrets out secrets too easily. She knows me too well. She’s smart, beautiful, big-hearted, and big-haired. If she had a penis, I would have married her when we were still in high school so no other guy could have gotten her.
She sizes me up. “Oh, Stella,” she says. “You’re in love with him.”
“I don’t want to be.” I set my jaw, but determination doesn’t win when it comes to my stupid heart. “I think I am. I know I am. Oh, shit. This is awful.”
“Baby, no. It’s really not.”
“Christopher could rip my heart to shreds. He’ll hurt me worse than Devon did.”
“Or...”
“Or what?”
“Or he could love you back. And make you happy and take good care of your heart.”
“That’s asking a lot.”
“It really isn’t.” She reaches for my hand. “You’re a wonderful woman. You deserve love. You deserve to have everything you want in this life. And think about how happy you can make him. You take care of people. You’re funny and smart and pretty. Why don’t you just try? With Christopher? Just...love him. See what happens.”
I sit back in my chair. “Sure. What could go wrong?”
I could fill an encyclopedia with all the things that could go wrong.
Perry steals my coffee and finishes it. “Do you want me to come over tonight?”
“I thought you had a date?”
“I’d cancel for you.”
She’s looking sweet and innocent, but I know her too well. “Speaking of being scared of relationships...”
“It’s a first date, not a relationship.”
“Go on your date. Keep an open mind. Just...try. See what happens.”
“No fair using my words against me.” She looks at the time on her phone. “I have a bajillion messages to return today if I’m going to cut out early and get ready for my date. You sure you don’t want me to cancel it?”
“Positive.”
She gets up. “Okay, then.” She kisses the top of my head. “I’ll see you at the wedding tomorrow.”
“Love you,” I tell her.
“Love you back.”
If only she had a penis.