Well, I had to admit, all that was interesting and insightful and weirdly mature.

Still.

“Um… well, now that we’re on that subject, it’s somewhat unhygienic for you to drink out of the milk jug.”

“Babe, I had my tongue in your mouth for ten minutes this morning. How’s that any different?”

I tipped my head to the side while considering this point.

Then I shared, “Your point holds merit.”

He burst out laughing and in the middle of it, buried his face in my neck so when he was done he could kiss me there.

This was nice as in way nice.

He used to do that all the time too.

And I’d missed it.

Then his head came up and his eyes captured mine.

“You all right with me jumpin’ in the shower before I head out?”

Brock na**d in my shower and all the delightful visions that would generate that I could pull out and turn over in my head anytime I wanted?

Uh…

Yeah!

“Sure,” I said.

His mouth hitched up on one side and I liked that too.

Then his semi-smile faded, his arms squeezed and he asked, “You want me here for salad?”

“Do you want to be here for salad?” I asked back.

“What I want is for you to tell me what you want,” he replied.

I thought about this.

Then I said hesitantly, “Maybe not.”

“Right,” he muttered.

“It’s not that I –” I hastened to add but he cut me off with another arm squeeze and he dipped his face close.

“Baby, it’s cool. I’ll show tonight around the same time as I showed last night. Good?”

I nodded.

“Tomorrow, no plans with your girls. Tomorrow night is mine,” he declared.

My belly got warm and gushy and I nodded again.

He grinned and muttered again, “Right.”

Then he dropped his head more, touched his mouth to mine briefly and murmured,

“Shower,” against my lips.

A thrill slid up my spine.

Brock let me go and sauntered out of the room.

I stared at the coffeemaker and smiled when I heard the shower go on in the bathroom.

Then I made coffee.

* * * * *

An hour and a half later, I was sitting in my car staring at the side of my bakery, my phone in my hand, deliberating.

I had never played games with Brock. Never. Not from the very beginning.

I took one look at him, liked what I saw a whole lot and the minute he showed interest, I showed it back and never veered from that path.

I did this because, since I saw it and all the times I saw it since, the scene in My Big Fat Greek Wedding when Ian asked Toula out and she immediately answered yes, no games, no subterfuge, exposing straight out she was not only interested but the idea of spending time with him excited her, I thought that was the sweetest thing I ever saw.

And I also did this because I was me.

So I was sitting in my car with my phone in my hand thinking that what Brock said was right. What he and I had had been f**ked and for three months it f**ked with my head.

But seven months ago, when he brought me home after our first date and kissed me in his pickup and that kiss lasted half an hour (this is no joke) and he finally tore his mouth from mine, shoved his face in my neck and growled, “Fuck, ” against my skin with his strong arms tight around me, I knew what we had was real, it had started good and it was only going to get better.

Like Toula and Ian knew in My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

That had been what Brock was talking about in my kitchen yesterday. That was what he meant when he said I knew the exact second I stopped being someone he was investigating and started being someone who might grow to mean something to him.

And I did know and that was the exact second I knew.

And last night he’d proved that what I felt in that second was no lie.

And playing games hadn’t got me that.

And playing games didn’t bring it back.

I got it and, being only who I was with him, I kept it.

So I touched the screen on my phone, went to favorites and my fingertip touched the word

“Slim” (I’d changed it, obviously).

Then I put the phone to my ear.

It rang twice before I heard, “Yeah, babe.”

“Hey,” I replied.

“Everything cool?” he asked.

“Um… I need to tell you something,” I told him.

Pause then, “I’m listening, Tess.”

I bit my lip.

Then I shared, “The reason I don’t really care about you drinking from the milk jug isn’t because it’s debatably ridiculous the reasons a woman doesn’t like a man drinking from a milk jug. It’s because I don’t much care what you do because I like you in my kitchen.”

This was met with silence.

I held my breath.

Then I got more silence.

That was when I considered maybe not letting it all hang out anymore.

Then I heard Brock ask, “Debatably ridiculous?”

The tightness forming in my chest released and I felt my lips form a smile as my eyes closed.

Then I opened them and said, “I will grant that just you drinking from it isn’t all that bad.

But we didn’t get into other options, say, should you be eating cookies or cake and you get backwash into the milk. That’s gross. No one wants to drink someone else’s backwash, even if it’s cookie or cake backwash. This is where it becomes a gray area.”

An attractive, low chuckle sounded in my ear through which I also heard, “Babe.”

“Just saying,” I said.

“Noted,” Brock replied.

“Okay, I have cakes to bake.”

“All right, darlin’, and I got the hint your girl is avoiding your cupcakes but your man is not so if you bring some home tonight, they will not go unappreciated.”

“Will you drink milk out of a glass when you eat them?”

Another attractive, low chuckle sounded through which I heard, “We’ll see how it goes.”

“Right,” I whispered.

“Go bake cakes.”

“Okay, later honey.”

“Later, babe.”

Then I disconnected.

Then I smiled

Then I exited my car, entered my bakery and commenced baking cakes.

Chapter Seven

Mountainous Swirls of Frosting

I stood at my front door waiting.

Then it came. Martha stopped folding her body into the driver’s seat, her eyes came over the roof of her car, up the steep rise at the edge of my front yard, the four steps up my front stoop to me at my arched front door.