Chapter 7: Sixty-Three Boxes

Joelle's POV

"I filed on Wednesday," I said, standing on his porch with a pot of gumbo against my hip. "I told you nothing until I filed."

"You did."

"I've been filed for three days, and I haven't been anyone's wife in my head since the cake table."

Reuben looked at me from the doorway.

The porch light was behind me, and the hall light was behind him, and neither of us moved.

"Tell me what you came for," he said. "Say it plainly. I don't want to guess."

I swallowed.

"I came because I want you to kiss me. Not because I'm sad. I am sad, but that's not why."

He took the pot out of my hands.

He set it on the hall table without looking and turned back, and I could see his chest rising.

"Come here, Joelle."

I stepped inside.

The door closed behind me with a small click, and then his hands were on my face.

He kissed me slowly.

His mouth was warm and sure, and it tasted of coffee and cold rice, and it took me a moment to understand that he was waiting for me.

I stood on my toes and gave him everything I had.

He made a sound low in his throat, and his hands went into my hair.

He had wanted to do that for days. I could feel it.

He tilted my head back and kissed me harder, and my back met the wall of the narrow hall.

I got my fingers into the front of his shirt.

His body was long and hard against mine, his erection pressing against my hip through his jeans.

"Joelle," he said against my mouth. "I've been thinking about this since Saturday."

"Show me," I whispered.

"Come here."

"Reuben." I dragged him down by his collar. "Don't hold back."

He laughed in the dark, once, shakily, and kissed the side of my neck.

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