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“Fuuuck!”

I don’t let up on her clit until her body settles and she gently knocks my hand away. And then I need a moment for my own body to calm down from the endorphin rush that gave me, so I rest my head on her thigh, unable to tame the giddy smile that pulls at my lips.

Her fingers slip into my hair, lightly massaging my scalp. “Come up here,” she requests.

I do it, even though I’d sort of like to stay like this, pushing my head into her hand like a cat. I can’t resist skimming my palm over her stomach as I move up to lie on my side next to her.

Unsure of what comes next, of what we’re supposed to say now, I smile shyly at her and say, “Hi.”

She laughs, more breath than sound. And then, before I can feel embarrassed, she hooks a hand around the back of my neck and reels me in for a kiss. I know it’s not a kiss that’s leading somewhere else, but it’s not a quick one either. She licks her way into my mouth, and I meet her tongue with mine. The weight of her kiss keeps my body grounded to this bed, while in my mind, I’m so happy it feels like I’m floating off into the sky.

She tightens her grip on my neck for a beat before letting me go. As she sweeps my hair back off my shoulder, she says, “I’m sure you’re not hungry after all that pie, but I can prep something so I can make us dinner later.”

I smile, starting to realize that cooking is her love language.

I mean, notlovelove. But it’s how she expresses that she cares.

And I mean cares in, like, the most basic sense, of course. Like we’re friends. Cooking is her friend language.

Mentally slapping myself, I try to relax. I’m not getting carried away here. I know this is nothing more than shared orgasms and enjoying each other’s company. It can’t be more than that, because she doesn’t date, and I... don’t belong here.

I have a life and career to get back to. Hopefully.

But I think I’d like to stay here, in the comfort of this bed with her, for as long as possible.

“Dinner sounds good,” I tell her. “But for now, could we just...”

Wordlessly, she wraps her arm around me, and I curl into her, my head finding a nice spot to rest below her collarbone. She goes back to playing with my hair, and I find myself drifting off, tired from the day at the festival but utterly content.

When I open my eyes, I’m not sure how much time has passed, but it’s still light out, and I’m alone in Addison’s bed. I don’t feel alone, though. Waking up in her home feels different than waking up in my Nashville mansion with all the unoccupied rooms. Because I know she’s here somewhere. I know I can go find her, and she’ll smile at me and make me feel welcome. Make me feel wanted.

I get out of bed to get dressed, then remember all my clothes are in the bathroom. I can’t walk out of this room naked, can I?

The towel I used is still on the hardwood floor, and that would be the easiest solution, but instead my eyes flick toward Addison’s closet. Curiosity draws me over there. I know this is basically like snooping, but considering how intimate we’ve been, I don’t think she’d really mind me looking through her clothes.

I pull open the closet to reveal a row of shirts on hangers. There are quite a few long-sleeved flannels, and it may be the middle of summer, but the coziness calls to me. I reach out for one that’s a dark blue and light gray plaid. The material is soft and not too thick. Slipping it off the hanger, I try it on.

I do up a couple buttons and step over to the mirror above her dresser to check myself out. It’s almost long enough to cover my ass, but not quite. There’s a hint of cheeks peeking out from the bottom. I feel sexy like this—not that sexy is what I’m going for. All I’m trying to do is sneak into the bathroom to grab my own clothes.

In the bathroom, I take off her shirt so I can put on my bra and thong. Eyeing my stained white tee, I decide to stick with the flannel. I slide my arms into it and fasten the middle three buttons, leaving the shirt open afew inches at the bottom and a bit of my bra showing on top. When I pick up my jean shorts, I hesitate. Then, feeling suddenly bold, I drop them back to the floor.

I go downstairs in only my underwear and Addison’s flannel shirt. I hear noises from the kitchen, so I walk in there. Addison is at the counter chopping vegetables in a tie-dyed T-shirt and black cotton shorts. She turns around when she hears me coming in. The waistband of the shorts is rolled down low, exposing a bit of her hipbones. I imagine myself standing in front of her, holding her hips, and pressing my thumbs there. But the intensity in her eyes when she looks at me has me frozen in place.

For a moment, I wonder if I was stupid. If I shouldn’t have gone in her closet, or if it looks like I’m trying too hard to be something I’m not. Then she smiles at me, and I’m hit with a rush of good feelings.

“Would you like to help?” she asks, holding out a hand to me.

I go over to her and take it, feeling the warm press of her palm against mine as I nod. Yeah, I think I’d like that very much.

She lays out a second cutting board and gives me easy instructions. And as we work side by side, smiling and laughing over little things, our hips occasionally bumping together, I realize that I feel more than just welcome and wanted. She makes me feel like maybe I really do belong here after all.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

RILEY

Sundayafternoon,asI’mputting on my bikini and getting ready for Andrew and Toby to pick me up to go to the lake, I keep glancing at Addison’s flannel shirt that I left draped over a chair in my room. It’s nothing more than an innocent item of clothing, yet it’s practically begging me to indulge in the memories of last night and this morning at her house.

We cooked dinner together, moving easily around each other like it was a choreographed dance, the way you can only do with someone you’re comfortable with. We talked, and teased, and took turns dragging each other in to steal kisses.