He’s painting a lot more these days, though never at any time when I’m also working in BaBs. I can see how my frenzied work pace and penchant for loud off-key singing could be distracting, but at the same time, I’m dying for the chance to watch Jack work. Though something tells me we might end up rolling around on the floor naked, our bodies covered in a layer of paint.

Which I wouldn’t be mad about.

“Cool. See you tomorrow, then.” I brush past him on my way out of the kitchen, relishing the zing the slightest hint of skin-to-skin contact brings.

Somewhere in the space of the past couple of weeks, I’ve stopped looking at this building tension as a thing to defeat. A thing that makes me uptight and impatient. Instead I’m savoring it. Allowing the anticipation to mount, reveling in each near miss, knowing the buildup is going to make the payoff that much sweeter. Which, honestly, feels mature as fuck.

When I bound down the stairs on Thanksgiving morning, just a few minutes before Gemma is set to arrive and take over the kitchen, a pajama-clad Jack and a vanilla latte are already waiting for me at the kitchen peninsula.

“I was going to start something for Gemma, but I couldn’t remember what she likes,” Jack says by way of greeting.

I pick up the Wonder Woman mug filled with my coffee and breathe in the heavenly scent. “No worries. I’ll make it for her. Thank you for this.” I lean over and plant a soft kiss on his cheek. His skin is smooth and smells of some kind of woodsy aftershave, the scent of which will soon disappear beneath his normal coffee-and-paper fragrance.

Jack’s cheeks flush a bright pink, but he pins me down with a stare that’s neither embarrassed nor tentative. It’s searing. “You’re welcome. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

To distract myself from the urge to climb into his lap and shove my tongue down his throat, I find the remote for the living room TV and flip to the parade. We rarely watch TV on this level since the basement is bigger and the couch more comfortable, but the parade is a nonnegotiable for me. And Nick and Mr. Roberts will want to watch some kind of sportsball later on, I’m sure.

Gemma knocks on the door a minute later, and after I make her a latte, she puts me to work as her sous chef. She immediately slips into her zone, controlling the kitchen with the practice of an Iron Chef and the grace of a ballerina. I chop and dice and check on things in the oven, following the orders of my commander as best I can, so as not to get chewed out. Jack, in the meantime, keeps our cups filled, first with coffee and then, at a more appropriate hour, with white wine.