Page 84 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

“No! You don’t need to buy that,” she said when I picked up the one that proclaimed I’m an inside cat under the image of a cat sitting with a stack of books.

“You need a mug at my place,” I told her, watching how she melted at that.

It was probably something I should have put a stop to right then and there, not fed into it. I wasn’t a relationship guy. I was barely a ‘spend the night’ kind of man. I didn’t do touchy-feely and warm and gooey.

That said, something felt right about her mug in my kitchen cabinet.

Her book on my coffee table.

Her body in my bed.

So I held onto the mug as she looked at a cozy blanket (which I picked up) and soft socks—or, as she called them, ‘reading chair’ socks. Whatever that meant. But I grabbed a pair of them. And a tote she touched on her way to the register.

She walked up and put her books on the counter, allowing me to walk up behind her and put the other purchases down in front of her.

“What is all this?” she asked, turning her head to look back and up at me.

“Pick-me-up shopping, remember?”

The smile she shot me was bright as sunlight.

And worth every overpriced item she’d inadvertently encouraged me to buy.

But then we took the tote and moved out onto the sidewalk and she fucking… launched herself at me, wrapping me up so tight it felt hard to breathe.

“Thank you,” she said into my chest as my arms lifted and slid around her, making that new sensation spread across my chest again. “I really needed that.”

“I know,” I agreed, giving into the very uncharacteristic urge to lean down and press a kiss to the top of her head.

What the fuck was going on with me?

“But now, food.”

She’d just eaten roughly fifteen hundred calories between her drink and the cookie.

But, yes, food.

As we sat at my dining table, she did keep reaching for the steamed vegetables to go with her noodles, though. So maybe I was rubbing off on her a bit.

“What’s the matter?” I asked after we cleaned up our food and got a pot of coffee brewing.

“I don’t have anything comfy to wear.”

“You not wearing anything isn’t a problem for me,” I said, getting an eye roll out of her.

“I can’t read naked.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know… paper cuts.”

“Fair enough. You can borrow one of my shirts.”

We could have gone back to her place.

I could have ordered an outfit to be delivered like I had with her fancy-ass syrup, creamer, and whipped cream. But I wanted her in my shirt. And I was just going to not analyze why that was.

“Fair warning,” she said as we sat down with our books and coffee on the couch, ready for some well-earned relaxation after a hectic few days.