Christopher stops just short of the door and frowns. “Everything okay?”
I nod, my grip firm on the doorknob. “Mm-hmm. Let’s go.” I take his hand and start down the hall, but he doesn’t budge, sending me boomeranging back into him.
“Oof.” I bump into his chest. “C’mon, we have to go.”
He stares down at me. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
I grimace. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that.”
His eyes darken as he steps closer. “That was a very foolish thing to hope, Katerina.”
“I’m behind on laundry,” I tell him apologetically. “The machines in the basement creep me out, and I was so busy all week, I kept forgetting to go to the laundromat, but I’ll do laundry soon, I promise. I’ll wash it right away and give it back to you—”
He bends and kisses me, deep and slow. I lean into it on a sigh as he nudges my mouth open and his tongue grazes mine.
“Keep it,” he says between kisses. “You wearing it is not the problem.”
I blink up at him, a little dazed by those kisses. “Then what is the problem?”
A husky laugh leaves him as he wraps me in his arms. “The problem is that I’m thinking about you in just that shirt, lifting it while my hands wander up your thighs straight to where I want, then tearing it off of you and teasing you with my mouth and hands until you’re begging me to make you come.”
My eyes widen. “Me wearing your shirt inspired all of that?”
He sighs, then he kisses me softly, closemouthed and sweet. “It doesn’t take much these days to inspire deeply erotic thoughts about you.”
I bite my lip. Leaning closer, I wrap my arms around his neck.
“What kind of erotic thoughts?” I ask, pressing up on my toes, taking his lip between my teeth and tugging softly.
On a growl, he pulls himself away, putting distance between our bodies except for his forehead, which he presses to mine. “Even I have limits, and telling you what I’ve been fantasizing about before we have to leave for Sunday dinner is it. Now, go on, get your jacket and bag so we can leave. We’ll be late if we don’t head out now, and we both know how Maureen feels about that.”
I grab his hand as he turns toward my room. “What are you doing?”
He arches an eyebrow and glances over his shoulder. “I was going to grab your laundry for you.”
I almost laugh. He thinks he could just walk in and pick up a hamper of dirty clothes. “Why were you going to get my laundry?”
“To bring it to your parents’,” he says, as if this is obvious and entirely logical. “You could get it done tonight while you’re there, couldn’t you?”
“Christopher. You’re not getting my laundry.”
“Suit yourself. Just pack it all in a bag, and I’ll carry it for you.”
“I don’t want to make us late—”
He starts toward my room again.
“Fine!” I yell, darting past him and slipping through a crack in the door. “I’ll be ready in five minutes!”
* * *
—
Christopher sits beside me at my parents’ dining table. He’s kept his hands to himself, but below the table, his knee rubs against my thigh, making me bite my lip as I stare into the remnants of the crème br?lée we had for dessert.
“Kate,” Dad says. “You said you had a project you started this week, wasn’t that right? Have any photos to share?”
Bea narrows her eyes across the table from me. “I already asked. She’s been so secretive about them.”
“I don’t like to show them until they’re edited,” I explain.
“You’ve been editing all day,” Christopher says. “Come on, Katydid.”
Mom’s expression perks up as she registers his use of that childhood endearment. I freeze, realizing his slip, but Christopher doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he does but he simply doesn’t care. He just sips his coffee and watches me as I dart out of my seat and dig around my bag for my phone, then come back to the table, opening up the folder where I store my projects’ photos.
He leans in as I plop down in my chair, bathing me in the familiar, enticing scent and warmth of his skin. “That’s beautiful,” he says, pointing toward the photo that I’ve pulled up. “This is from the nonprofit—”
“For girls and gender-nonconforming kids.” I nod. Then I offer my phone to my dad first, telling everyone at the table, “I went in at the beginning of the week and took photos for this nonprofit that focuses on emotional support and self-expression. These were taken while they ran their storytelling workshop.”
“Beautiful, Katie-bird,” Dad says proudly, beaming up at me, then handing the phone to Bea. “You have such a gift.”
“KitKat!” Bea says, scrolling through the album and leaning toward Jamie so he can see them, too. “These are stunning.”
“Thank you. I’m happy with those. Now I just have about fifty more to edit and get in similar shape tonight.”
“Do you have to do them tonight?” Christopher turns more fully my way, a concerned frown on his face as he stretches his arm across the back of my chair. “Why don’t you take a break and tackle the rest tomorrow?”
“Well, in theory, that would be lovely, except I told them I’d get the photos finalized before Christmas, and with all the hours I’ll be working this week at the Edgy Envelope, I should try to get more done tonight.”
Christopher sighs as he rubs his knuckles against the back of my shoulder, where no one at the table can see. “That’s too fast of a turnaround you agreed to.”
“They wanted to have it ready when they kick off funding initiatives in the New Year. I didn’t want to make them wait when I could do it now, even if it was a bit of a crunch. Besides, I don’t have any other projects to tackle at the moment—”
“Besides working nearly full-time at the Edgy Envelope during its busiest time of the year,” he says. “That’s a lot, Kate.”
Dad’s eyebrows lift at the intensity of his tone. Christopher’s focused on me, so he misses my dad’s surprised expression. Mom hides a smile in her coffee cup that I don’t understand, but doesn’t say anything. Bea and Jamie don’t seem to notice, their heads still bent over my photos as they talk.
Jamie, who hands my phone to Mom, peers up and asks, “What are the photos going to be used for?”
“In their new presentation they’ve built for prospective investors,” I tell him.
Mom smiles as she scrolls through the photos. “They’re gorgeous, Kate. I’m so proud of you.”
My throat feels thick. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Now, is this work relatively close to or different from what you did when you were abroad?” Jamie asks, wrapping an arm around Bea as she leans into his shoulder and covers a yawn.
I shrug, scraping my spoon along the burnt-sugar rim of what’s left of my crème br?lée. “Logistically it’s simpler here, but something like this . . . it’s what I’ve always aspired to in my photojournalistic work—activism through storytelling, giving my subjects the chance to be heard, their voices amplified through the power of images that make people stop and listen.”
Bea smiles up tiredly at Jamie. “My baby sister’s a badass.”
“That she is,” Jamie says fondly to her.
Christopher’s silent. But when I peer his way, he’s watching me so intently, I feel it like a dry shock of static electricity.
“Christopher actually made the introduction for me with this nonprofit,” I tell everyone, even though my eyes can’t seem to leave him. “I have a handful of projects waiting for me in the New Year because he won’t stop blabbing about me to his social network.”
A grin tips his mouth, his eyes holding mine. “What good is a social network if you don’t use it? Besides, I didn’t make them hire you. I just sent them your website and told them you’d done the firm’s new headshots. Your work spoke for itself.”
“Do you think you’ll take on those projects after the New Year?” Dad asks, leaning in, elbows on the table. “Or do you think you’ll go abroad for your usual work again?”
Christopher’s suddenly very interested in his empty dinner plate, eyes down, expression tight and unreadable.