But is it too much to ask for a bed? To be taken back to his place? Or mine? To have someone hotly whisper sweet things in my ear? To hold my hand in his and tug me along, laughing like some fucking rom-com montage? To have my clothes peeled off one piece at a time while he covers every bit of exposed flesh with hot kisses?

To be worshipped with his tongue?

I know he has it in him. He did at eighteen, so it stands to reason now would be even better.

My eyes slip shut with a frustrated moan. The water is warm against my sensitive skin, but I refuse to give in to the temptation of pretending my hands are his. I switch the knob back to cold and jump out, toweling off.

Throwing on some leggings and one of my dad’s hand-me-down Fair Isle sweaters, I pour myself a cup of coffee and plop on a stool right as Lorelai and Maren help themselves at my front door.

I frown. “No knocking?”

Lorelai glances around before pointedly tilting her head. “Do we need to knock?”

“No,” I say. “It’s just polite.”

“Uh-oh,” says Maren, helping herself to coffee. “I take it we’re not doing yoga this morning?”

I make a face. I’d forgotten. “Not in the mood.”

Lorelai sits on a stool next to me. “Fine by me.” Lorelai hates yoga. She giggles through the entire class, saying the instructor’s soothing tone reminds her of Mister Rogers having intercourse. (Yeah, I don’t know either.)

My knee bounces in the silence and Maren and Lorelai exchange looks.

“Breakfast?”

“Not hungry,” I mumble.

“Oh, she’s hungry,” Lorelai says, smirking.

Maren is a half beat too late in raising her mug to hide her smile.

I huff. “I’m not good company this morning. Raincheck?”

Maren shakes her head, her auburn ponytail swaying. “I don’t think so. You’re clearly upset.”

Lorelai pulls open a package of Pop-Tarts, eating a frosted cherry one cold, like she was raised in a barn. She leans a legging-clad hip against my counter. “What she means is you have your ‘I need to go fuck something up’ face on.”

“But in a sweet, cozy kind of way,” Maren offers, with a nod at my sweater.

“My skin itches,” I admit.

“Rash?”

“Cameron Riggs,” I say on a sigh.

Lorelai makes a sound in the back of throat, her mouth full of tart.

“We kissed at the Caroline Street property last night.”

Maren squeaks, lowering her cup to the island with a clink. “How was it? As good as you remember?”

“Better.” My skin flushes remembering the way his calloused hands slid under my shirt. “But,” I continue, rinsing my cup at the sink, “I don’t want to have sex on a job site like I’m some kid sneaking behind my parent’s back.”