She doesn’t need any more proof that I move faster than a freight train. And really, it’s not my fault anyway. She’s the one who’s so hot.

And infuriating.

And secretly soft.

She smiles. “Good. Obviously, I am reaping the benefits of that decision, so I support it.” She laughs to herself, her eyes closing again like she might decide to drift back to sleep.

Her hand breaks a trail through the goose bumps on my skin from my hip to my breast. I cover it with my own as she caresses me. She crawls onto her elbows, scooting across the bed to get closer to me. There’s something intoxicating about being the object of her affection. When Amy looks at me like this, with her eyes so big they could devour me, her cheeks flushed like nothing excites her more than my body laid out beneath her, it’s easy to let myself be distracted by her touch, to let her put her hands and her mouth all over me again.

But Amy yawns, triggering one in me. I close my eyes to the hazy gold that surrounds us, the heat from her body and her sweet murmurs. Her body gets heavy again, and I am tired too, but my heart still races and I keep my eyes closed tight in the hopes that eventually sleep will take me. If I fake it long enough.

Because I can’t look at her and keep control of the rest of me. If I look, I’m afraid I’ll do something silly, something I’ll regret. Like let this moment get the better of me. Because she’s beautiful and she makes me want to be a better chef. She makes me feel brave enough to stand in front of a camera again. To put myself on display for everyone to pick apart. She makes me feel so proud to be queer from all the quiet, regular ways she is just herself, every day. Amy takes me apart bone by bone, and I am happy for it. And all these feelings make me want to say something stupid. Something a person who rushes into everything says.

So, I keep my eyes closed and I imagine that under different circumstances I could tell Amy that she makes me want to be as brave as she is.

Chapter Fourteen

Amy

The space where Sophie was sleeping last night is still warm as I slide my hand, with increasing urgency, around the bed. For a heartbeat I luxuriate in that warmth, the knowledge that she was here at all a balm that pushed the embarrassment from my father’s reprimands and the fear for my restaurant to the back of my mind.

A floorboard creaks and I sit up, fast. The comforter pools around my waist and Sophie stops, her shoes in her hands, her eyes on my chest. “Were you...are you leaving?” I ask.

She winces, dropping her shoes in a clatter to the floor. “I was going to get us coffee,” she says quickly.