Teaser #6: Here Without You (Between the Lines #4)

OH HOLY BANANA NUTS, this is a first. I just got this tweet:

*head desk*

Ever had that feeling you're forgetting something? I get that feeling a LOT lately. Usually, BECAUSE I AM.

In the past month, I added a downsizing move to my overflowing to-do list. It's been a while since I moved, and apparently I misremembered how much I loathe doing it until it was too late. If I ever move again, I'm leaving everything behind except a cat and a travel coffee mug.

In addition to the move itself, I've gone from a suburban house to an urban apartment. The quiet hours here are... fewer and different. Last night, there was a delivery to a restaurant under us around 2 AM. Big truck. Two guys. One dolly. Lots of boxes. Thirty minutes of noise. WTF.

Lying in bed wide awake - 4.5 hours before I usually get up - I fought off a strong desire to bury myself under a load of heavy unpacked boxes. (And I have just the boxes to do the job credibly.) Unsurprisingly, I needed copious amounts of coffee to wake me up this morning... two hours late.

Heather is pretty darned patient - because I was supposed to post this teaser over six hours ago. Ungghhhh. (I usually pre-post, but yeah, I forgot to do that, too.)

So how about two teasers instead of one? (Please direct all thank-yous to Heather for giving my brain a polite little Twitter zap. Because otherwise, it might have been Thursday before I realized it was Tuesday.)

This week, we'll hear from Dori:

Forget what people say about makeup sex—I’ve decided going-away sex doesn’t get nearly as much credit as it deserves. “If I stay, we’d probably just sleep anyway.” 
“And that would be bad because…?” 
I press my head to his chest and breathe him in. There’s nothing I’d like better than to kick off my shoes and climb back into his bed. “It’s my last night at home, at least for a while. Plus, Dad promised to make my favorite breakfast—banana walnut waffles—in the morning.” 
His fingers encircle my wrist and he pushes the cuff of my shirt back to kiss the pulse thrumming there. “I can get you home in time for breakfast,” he whispers.
Maybe it was unimportant. Maybe it was nothing. 
“You got a call while you were in the shower,” I finally say, watching him. 
His brows draw down slightly and his eyes flick to me. “Oh?” 
Staring into my own eyes, I lean close to the mirror and run the mascara wand over my lashes. “From Brooke?” I clarify, trying to sound unconcerned. Trying to be unconcerned. 
He stops cold, staring at me, and I feel as though the air has all just been sucked from the room.

Tammara Webber

New York Times and international bestselling author of contemporary romantic fiction