Chase

"I have to admit, this isn’t what I was expecting," Livia says, perched on a bar stool and examining the plate I just set in front of her on the counter. She’s changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants, and fuck me if it isn’t somehow more adorable than her librarian get-up. I want to tackle her to the ground and tickle her until she’s squirming and red-cheeked underneath me. I want to turn on a movie and pull her into my lap and finger her so slowly that she forgets how to speak.

"You weren’t expecting me to cook?"

"You know, I am pretty sure I said delivery."

"But you also said that you wanted to make sure I wasn’t a serial killer. I thought maybe making you Grandma Kelly’s Irish breakfast for dinner would prove to you that I have a good, non-murdery heart."

Livia smiles down at her plate. Eggs and sausage and tomatoes and bacon. "I suppose a serial killer wouldn’t make these raspberry scones from scratch."