Making Me Sane (Sanity Book 2) (27 page)

“We’re in an elevator,” I remind him.

“And alone,” he reminds me.

The elevator dings and the doors open. Trace smiles and pulls me down the hallway to our room. He starts kissing me again. The world seems to narrow to just Trace. His lips on my neck, his hands finding the zipper of my dress to drag it down. His hands slide up to my shoulders to push the material down until it’s falling off my body and pooling at my feet. Trace pushes on my hips and I fall onto the bed behind me. He starts to undress.

“I can help you with that,” I say, pushing up on my elbows.

“Nope. Rather look at you lying there than to have you help me.”

I scoot further up the bed and then unhook my bra, throwing it at Trace. He catches it with a grin before tossing it over his shoulder. By the time I do the same with my panties, he’s naked and crawling into the bed, covering my body like he’s a man on a mission. I love when he’s like this. It’s like he needs one specific thing from this world and I’m it. I’m what he’s missing. He kisses my shoulder, my collarbone, and then my neck with a heady combination of him cherishing me and taking everything he needs from me while giving it right back to me.

“God, I love you,” he mumbles against my skin.

I grin. That’s all that matters.

It’s late when we get home Saturday night, so we sleep in Sunday. Trace pulls me closer against him as he rouses awake. His stomach growls loudly too.

“You know what I was dreaming about?” he rumbles.

“What?”

“You cooking. Then, I realized that since you’ve lived here with me, you haven’t cooked a single meal.”

“That’s too many thoughts to have just woken up.”

He chuckles. “You do know how to cook, don’t you? That might be a deal breaker.”

That makes me laugh. “Yeah, right. You love to cook, and even if we get home around the same time, you still take over in the kitchen.”

“But do you know how to cook?”

“Hey,” I prop myself up with my forearms on Trace’s chest. “I’ve cooked us pizza and those cracker things your mom made and I made eggs and grits one day.”

“You burned the marshmallows,” he points out.

I roll my eyes. “If I remember correctly, someone distracted me, so it wasn’t even my fault.”

“Let’s get back to the real topic. Can you make pancakes for me this morning?”

I narrow my eyes and tilt my head at him. “What are you up to that you want me to cook you breakfast?”

Trace laughs. “Nothing. I just want to see if you can do it.”

“You think I’ll mess up pancakes?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I just want to see if you can make them.”

“What do I get if I can?”

“You want a prize?” He grins. “I’ll have a prize for you if you can do it. Hell, I’ll have one for you even if you can’t.”

I laugh and shake my head at him. “Okay. Pancakes coming right up!”

I get out of bed and head to the kitchen. Truth time. I’ve never made pancakes. I’m more of a waffle girl, myself, but Trace loves pancakes. I like them and will eat them if he fixes some. Lucky for me, the box has instructions on it. This is going to be so easy. Twenty minutes later, I have a stack of beautifully brown pancakes on a plate. I slather them with butter and then drizzle syrup over them.

“Smells good,” Trace says, walking into the room with Lily on his heels.

“Ha. I cooked pancakes. Give me my prize.”

He shakes his finger at me. “Got to taste them first.” He gets a fork and cuts himself a piece. He looks at me as he lifts it to his mouth. His nose scrunches as he chews.

“Don’t even try it, Trace. They have to be good. Look at them!”

He looks as if he’s forcing himself to swallow. “They aren’t done. Sorry, Britt.”

“What?” I squeal. I pick up one of the pancakes and break it in half. “How is that even possible!” The middle is still batter. It’s not cooked. I followed the directions to a T! If I had’ve left it on there any longer, it would’ve burned! “I don’t believe it,” I mutter to myself.

“It’s okay. You tried. I’ll whip us up another batch,” Trace says, taking the pancake from me and dumping the entire plate in the trash.

I fold my arms over my chest, lean against the counter, and watch him. This sucks. Especially since I was so sure I did well. “I do know how to cook, you know,” I say. “I always helped my parents cook. That was my favorite part of growing up. All of us in the kitchen cooking together.”

“I believe you.”

“No, you don’t. I just screwed up pancakes, which in my defense, that was the first time I’ve ever made them.”

“Fine. I have my doubts,” he admits. “Did you always help, or did you ever actually cook?”

I think about all the times I was in the kitchen with my parents. “Oh, my god. I don’t know how to cook! How is that possible? This is terrible.” Trace starts chuckling, but I slap his arm. “I’m serious! The only thing I ever planned to do with my future was that when I had kids, they would be in the kitchen with me and my husband, helping us cook, like I did with my parents. I have so many good memories from that. I can’t do that now!”

Trace cups the back of my neck. “Britt. You’re forgetting something here.”

“Which is?”

“You can learn. Our kids will be fine. Worse comes to worst, I’ll cook and you can help with the kids. It’ll be fine. No need to freak out.” He kisses my forehead before going back to preparing pancakes.

I stare at him. He...he just said
our
kids. Trace can see himself as my husband and the father to our children. My eyes well with tears, but I blink them back. I need to tell him I trust him. I know it. Melissa knows it. But Trace doesn’t know it yet.

He cooks the pancakes and we sit at the table to eat. Three pancakes for me and six for Trace.

“Did you want to do anything today? I was planning to go to the grocery store and mow the yard yesterday, so should probably do that today,” he says.

“Speaking of, I’ve been meaning to ask you this, but I always forget. Why in the world do you have a push mower? I mean, I would help you if it weren’t for that.”

He laughs. “I just like it better. That’s what Dad had for the longest time before he bought a riding mower. In case you haven’t realized it yet, Britt, I’m old and stuck in my ways.”

He is stuck in his ways. Push mower,
Dateline
and popcorn, a particular news channel, his music, his side of the bed. In all the time we’ve shared a bed, he’s never strayed to my side of the bed, even though I’ll move to his.

“You aren’t old.” He’ll be thirty-three next week. I’ll be twenty-four the week after. “What do you want to do for your birthday, by the way?”

“What do you want to do for yours?” he counters. “This’ll be the first time we’ve celebrated our birthdays together.”

“And then there’s Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s. How is that going to work?”

“Well, my dad is dying for us to go visit him in Texas. Which holiday would you rather spend with your parents?”

I’ve always gone home for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. It’ll be sad to not do that. “What if they all came here for the holidays?” I ask, hopeful.

“Britt,” he says gently, which means bad news is coming. “I have one spare bedroom, and I’m not going to have to pick which set of parents has to stay in a hotel.”

Crap. “Which is going to be easier for you? Going home in November or December?” Maybe Trace doesn’t want to be in Texas in December. That’s the month his mom died.

He takes a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter to me. I go by her grave whenever I’m in town, so it doesn’t matter,” he repeats. “We don’t have to decide now anyway. We were talking about our birthdays, which are much sooner and therefore, more important.”

“I want to see my parents, so as long as that happens, I don’t care.” We haven’t seen them since we went to the beach. It’s about time. “What do you want to do for yours?”

Trace shrugs. “Sex?”

I throw a piece of pancake at him, laughing. It falls to the floor. Lily is on it before we have a chance to grab it. Figures that’s the answer he’d pick. Now, our plates are empty. I stand and take them over to the sink. “I need to tell you something, so let’s be serious for a moment.”

He frowns, as if that’s bad news, and pulls me to straddle his lap once I’m close enough. “What is it, Britt?”

My arms snake around his neck and I rest my forehead against his. “I need to tell you something.”

“You already said that.”

“Right.” Suddenly, I’m nervous about saying the words that need to be said. Maybe I should’ve waited for the right moment instead of making a big deal out of it. It is a big deal, though.

“Just tell me,” he says softly.

“I trust you,” I whisper.

His chest deflates and he stares at me for a moment. “Say it again.”

“I trust you.”

“Again.”

“I trust you.”

“One more.”

I laugh. “I trust you, Trace.”

He cuts off my laugh with a kiss. It’s demanding, hard, powerful, but best of all, it’s mixed with desire and love. I can feel his hard length already and I know that in about two seconds, he’s going to stand and carry me to the bedroom. Trace surprises me instead by pulling away from me.

“Thank you.”

“Thank
you
.”

“You’re happy?”

“Happier than ever.”

A rush of relief-filled air leaves him. Trace is staring at me like he doesn’t know what to do with me. Or, that there’s so many things and he can’t decide what to do first. I get out of his lap and hold out my hand. Trace stands, taking it in his. My mouth waters as I decide what we’re going to do first. I don’t do it nearly as often as Trace goes down on me, but I’d say he deserves it. Once we’re in his bedroom, I turn to face Trace, who grins.

“I know that look.”

“What look?”

“That look you get when you’re about to make me very happy.”

I laugh. “Stop talking before you make me change my mind.”

Trace wastes no more time talking. He’s naked faster than I’ve ever seen him undress before. He kisses me as I wrap my hands around his length.

“What about mowing the yard?” I ask, trying not to laugh.

“It’s not that tall,” he says between kisses down my neck.

“What about grocery shopping?”

“We can starve,” he answers, and I laugh as he swats my hands away to pick me up and throw me on the bed. “We have better things to do.”

That we do.

“H
ow’s it going, Trace?” Mrs. Kirk asks me first thing Monday morning at my appointment.

“Good. We flew to Las Vegas Friday night because our best friends wanted to elope, came home Saturday night, and yesterday, Brittany told me that she trusts me again.”

“Sounds like things are better than good.”

I can’t help my smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“How’s the anxiety and depression been? It’s been two weeks since I saw you last.” Yes, because I get to see her every two weeks now.

“Fine. I still have my moments, but nothing that’s lasted longer than a day.”

“And with Brittany?” she asks.

“She’s stable still. She had some anxiety Friday, but that was because we were caught completely off guard when our friends wanted us to go with them to Vegas. Plus, she’s not really a fan of flying. She was fine the next day, though.”