The Invitation by Adriana Locke

Georgia

“Okay,” Ripley says, taking a look around the kitchen. “I have all the cameras set up.”

“This is going to work much better than our half-assed film job last night. Although, I do think that footage is gold.”

He pulls me to him, kissing the top of my head. “It was fun. Waffles did steal the show though.”

True.

“I filmed a confessional this morning,” I say.

“You did? When?”

“I came downstairs for a while and let Waffles out to pee. The sunrise was gorgeous, so I sat for a while and watched it.”

He smiles against my cheek before letting me go.

“That’s okay, isn’t it?” I ask.

“Of course, it’s okay. Don’t be silly.” I reach for one of the cameras we positioned around the kitchen. “I’ll turn this one on. You get the other two.”

“Got it.”

“And remember. You can’t just fondle me and kiss me the whole time,” I say, laughing. Myla is going to have to cut so much out of last night’s footage.

Ripley groans as he presses record on the camera by the sink, and the one in the corner. I turn on the camera by the pantry.

“We’re rolling,” I say.

“Act natural.”

I snort, shaking my head. “Are you sure these pancakes are going to taste normal?” I peer at the ingredients list. “They look weird.”

“You won’t know the difference.”

I watch him walk shirtless in front of me. My God, his body is perfection. “It says there’s like one hundred grams of protein in this mix.”

“It’s an easy, healthy swap from the normal brands.”

“I don’t think I need this much protein in a day.”

He smirks. “Probably not after the amount I’ve been giving you.”

I pick up a hand towel and throw it at him. He ducks, laughing at his own joke.

The ingredient list on the back of the box calls for a ton of eggs and a bit of milk. I gather the things from the refrigerator and take them back to the counter.

Ripley fries turkey sausage on the stovetop, whistling while he works. It’s the cutest thing in the world to watch. This tall, strong man whistling a tune from an eighties kids’ show. Who would’ve thought?

My anxiety has decreased as the morning has worn on. Everything feels worse at night. As soon as we woke up and climbed into a hot bath together, I remembered why I felt so happy yesterday.

Because I trust him.

“I think this batter needs a little sugar,” I say.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Look at it.” I lift a spoonful of the brown, slightly lumpy mixture. “It smells … not sweet.”

“It’ll be fine. Trust me. This is what I do all day.”

“Yeah, well, I eat sweet stuff all day and my taste buds are conditioned to it. You can’t just take me off the good stuff cold turkey.”

He mutters something I can’t hear, which is probably a good thing.

I go through his pantry, looking for his sugar container. I spy it on the second shelf. Standing on my tippy-toes, I pull it down.

“Found it,” I say, placing it on the counter. “You can’t hide it from me.”

A coy grin plays on his lips. “I wouldn’t want to.”

“Good, because I think … Ripley!”

His grin grows into a full smile.

I pull out a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie. The jar is full of them.

My heart squeezes. He remembered. I laugh. Of course, he did. This man is something else.

“How?” I demand, smiling at him.

“How what?”

“How did you get these cookies here? Clearly, you don’t keep them around because there’s not a fun food in here. When did you get them?”

He flips over the bacon, his arm muscles flexing. “I got them delivered after I got home from the cabin.”

What? “Why?”

“Because I knew you’d be here at some point, and I’ll be damned if I ever let that cookie jar run dry.”

I drop the cookie jar onto the counter and fling myself at him. He chuckles, putting the spatula down, and picking me up.

He sets me on the counter away from the stove and I wrap my legs around his waist.

He kisses my nose. “What’s wrong? I see it on your face.”

I bury my head in his neck. “I hope you’re real.”

“What?” He laughs pulling me back so he can see into my face. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just that this is all so great. You’re so great. And just a couple of days ago, I was sure you were playing with me, trying to get me to fall for you, for shits and giggles.”

His face darkens.

“And now I think maybe you’re not. I want to hope you’re not. But …”

He picks up my hand and places a kiss on my palm. “Honestly? I was trying to get you to fall for me.”

My insides still.

“I told myself it was to put you in your place because that made me feel better, you know? I could justify that,” he says, running a finger down my cheek. “But really, it was because I wanted you to want me. I was just scared as hell that you wouldn’t and that would hurt even more.”

I lock my heels around his back.

“But, Peaches, I swear to you—I swear on Waffles—that this is all real. I understand that you’re scared or have reservations. That’s not a problem. I can fix that. I can be here. I can prove to you that I mean all the things I say. And, if I have to wait another decade to get you to understand, then I guess it’ll really suck now that I’ve had you.” He kisses me simply, sweetly. “But I’ll wait until you’re sure.”

I scoot to the edge of the counter and drape my arms over his shoulders. Then I look at the camera in the corner. Myla won’t be able to keep these references to our past relationship. But she definitely has to lose this.

“Myla, you’re going to need to cut it here,” I say, laughing at Ripley nibbles on the side of my neck.

He picks me up and carries me out of the room. We’re upstairs when the smoke alarm goes off, reminding us of the bacon.