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So, when Edward tells me Kate <strong>just</strong> couldn't hack it 'cause she isn't me, I don't fool<br />
<strong>my</strong>self into denying the possibility there's some underlying double meaning to the<br />
statement.<br />
However, I'm also not a vain person. So that other part of me refuses to allow the<br />
words to sink in further than face value. Kate isn't me, he's right. She's not the<br />
mother to his first child, or his best friend of almost 12 years. Of course!<br />
I'm not sure —at first—which route to take the words, never mind which I want them<br />
to mean, so I do what any girl in <strong>my</strong> position would do. No, I don't brush things under<br />
the rug. I go the overanalyzing-the-shit-out-of-everything-he-says-and-does route.<br />
As well as trying to rile him up every chance I get to see how he reacts to me.<br />
Actions speak louder than words, after all.<br />
I do it simply though, not one for theatrics. You know, like wearing less clothes when<br />
applicable; giving him lingering touches that could be deemed innocent or torturous,<br />
depending on how he's feeling. Adding lollipops and popsicles to the grocery list and<br />
other things like that.<br />
Or <strong>my</strong> favorite; waking up earlier than him and making sure I'm dressed—in one of<br />
his shirts—and bent down in front of the stove, <strong>just</strong> in time for . . .<br />
"Shit!"<br />
Yup, <strong>just</strong> in time for him to get a nice view of <strong>my</strong> thong clad ass and for him to mutter<br />
profanities under his breath. With a smile on <strong>my</strong> face, I stand straight. "Morning,<br />
Edward."<br />
"Morning."<br />
"I made cinnamon buns. Wanna taste the icing?" I swipe <strong>my</strong> finger over one of the<br />
buns, collecting some icing, and pointing it at him. He gulps a little, but then his eyes<br />
narrow.<br />
Sauntering over to me, he shocks me by placing his hands on <strong>my</strong> hips and lightly<br />
pushing me back against the counter. My chest heaves up and down, but I<br />
somehow find the strength to lift up <strong>my</strong> hand.<br />
Parting his lips, I watch as the tip of his tongue comes out to wet his bottom lips<br />
before he takes <strong>my</strong> finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and moaning.<br />
With a smirk on his face, he releases <strong>my</strong> finger, then leans in to whisper into <strong>my</strong> ear.<br />
"I know what you're doing."
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