“There, does that feel okay?”
“Yes,” I answer, and when she tries to pull away, I hook my leg around her to keep her in place. “Where did you get this shirt?”
She glances down at the faded black shirt, which hits her midthigh.
She shrugs. “Old boyfriend.”
Yesterday, that would’ve put me into a tailspin of jealousy. But today, knowing she’s been lying up a storm, I don’t believe it for a second, especially since her eyes looked away when she answered.
“And you wear it in front of your husband?” I ask, my hand falling to the hem of the T-shirt.
“Remember what I said about that title?”
“You said ‘I do’ to me. That means something.” I pull on the hem, lifting it up. “And I don’t like you wearing another man’s shirt in front of me.”
Really, I don’t care. But this is what she wants, so this is the ungentlemanly attitude she’ll get.
I lift the fabric higher, exposing her flat stomach, and a piece of me wishes she wasn’t wearing a bra, but I can see the underwire of her bra as I lift higher. To my surprise, she lifts her arms to the sky, and I drag the shirt up and over her head and then toss it on the floor.
My eyes fall to her body. Wearing a black bra and pink underwear, she stands there with no shame, no shyness. Just as she is, and it’s bloody sexy.
“Go put something on that isn’t an insult to me.”
Her mouth ticks up, a smile spreading across her lips.
“You brought me home donuts and then act possessive? Are you the asshole or are you the nice guy?”
“Both. When it comes to what’s mine, I’ll be the arsehole.”
She reaches for the shirt and puts it back on. When I go to say something, she says, “I got this shirt when I was in high school. I found it at a thrift store and thought it was cool to wear something completely oversized. I haven’t been able to part with it since.”
Her eyes stay focused on mine as she speaks, and this story I believe.
I adjust the ice on my face. “Good.”
“Settled now?”
“Yes,” I answer, enjoying this authentic interaction.
“Well, then, welcome home. I made pancakes.”
I smirk. “I brought home donuts.”
“I see that.”
“Have you ever had Frankie Donuts?” I ask as I keep my eyes trained on her. “The kids in my classroom are always talking about them.”
“Uh, yeah,” she answers while turning away from me.
Her lies . . . I can read them so easily.
“A kid in my class, Drake Goodwin, was showing me the Instagram page for Frankie Donuts.”
Cora picks up the turner without comment and moves to the griddle to flip the pancakes.
Undeterred by her silence, I continue, “I thought the donuts looked good, but the pictures don’t really do them any justice.”
“What?” She looks over at me. “I think they have an awesome social media presence. Some might say the best in the business.”
I shrug. “I think Crumbl Cookies does a better job.”
She gasps and points her turner at me. “Take that back.”
“Take what back?”
“That blatant lie.”
“It’s not a lie, it’s the truth. They do a better job.”
Her eyes narrow and it takes everything in me not to laugh.
“That’s just . . . mean.”
“Mean? Why are you so defensive about their social media?” I ask. “Are you an avid follower?”
“I just . . . uh, I happen to, uh, know the person who does their social media.”
I’m sure she does.
“And it’s hurtful, because I know how hard she works at building a loyal following. She’s actually scored them some big connections in the donut game, possible talks of franchising, you know.”
“Is that so? Well, good for your friend. Maybe tell her to add some more videos. Drake was telling me the Instagram algorithm likes videos. It’s probably why Crumbl does them so much.”
“Well, Crumbl also has a huge marketing team behind them, whereas Frankie Donuts has one person, and they can only do so much,” she shoots back at me.
“Just an observation.”
“It’s a stupid one,” she grumbles, going back to the pancakes.
“The donuts are good, though. So good I sent some over to the Rebels.”
She stiffens and then slowly turns around to face me. “What?”
Her steady but worried reaction couldn’t be more perfect.