CHAPTER thirty-five #14
He reaches for the can, and before I can stop him, he tilts his head back and sprays a perfect swirl into his mouth like it's some kind of competitive sport. A little splat lands on his chin, and I completely lose it.
"Smooth," I manage between laughs.
He swipes it off with his thumb, mock-offended. "Don't judge greatness."
We keep passing the can back and forth, laughing harder each time—him pretending to measure who can hold the whipped cream longer before swallowing, me accusing him of cheating. It's absurd, childish, and absolutely perfect.
For a moment, it's like time rewinds. I can almost see us again—two kids sitting on my porch steps after one of his games, sticky fingers, the same can between us, the same easy laughter filling the summer air.
Only now, we're older. The world's heavier. And yet, somehow, this—this silly, sweet little thing—still feels just as magical.
He hands me the can back and I align the nozzle of the whipped cream over my open mouth while Zach's halfway through some dumb story about how, when we were ten, I dared him to see who could fit more whipped cream in their mouth without choking—and how he ended up sneezing it all over my face instead.
I'm mid-laugh, the memory already making my stomach hurt, when I press the nozzle a little too hard.
A jet of whipped cream shoots straight into my mouth and keeps going—overflowing down my chin and onto my sweatshirt.
"Holy crap—!" I gasp, half laughing, half choking as I shove the can back at Zach.
He's already doubled over, wheezing between laughs. "You're still terrible at this! Some things never change!"
"Shut up!" I try to glare but end up laughing harder, smearing cream from my chin. "Kleenex, please!"
He reaches over my nightstand, still laughing, fumbling around the cluttered surface. I swipe a bit of whipped cream off my fingers, instinctively licking it off—because hey, waste not, want not.
The laughter stops.
I glance over my shoulder, confused. "What? Did you find it or—"
Zach's just... staring.
His eyes linger on my fingers as I suck the last remnants of cream from them. His throat works as he swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like he's trying to choke down something far thicker than spit.
I cock my head to the side, one finger still lingering in my mouth, and look at him. "Zach?" I ask, my voice muffled around my digit. "You okay?"
He doesn't answer. Not at first. His jaw has gone slack, his eyes dark and hooded, locked on my mouth.
His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, and his hands clench and unclench at his sides like he's fighting the urge to do something reckless.
He blinks, coughs once, clears his throat like he's swallowed wrong. "I—uh—yeah, I should... probably... go."
I blink, pulling my finger from my mouth with a soft pop. "What? Why?"
My gaze drops instinctively, and that's when I see it—the unmistakable tenting of Zach's sweatpants, the fabric stretched taut over the hard, throbbing outline of his shaft.
My eyes widen, my mouth forming a perfect "O" of shock.
"Oh my god!" I squeak, my hands flying up to cover my face. "Zach! What the—"
I peek through my fingers, my cheeks burning, but I can't help it.
My eyes flick downward again, taking in the sheer size of him, the way his cock strains against the fabric, throbbing visibly with every heartbeat.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry despite the lingering sweetness of the cream.
He follows my gaze, his face flushing a deep, mortified crimson.
"Fuck!" he curses, scrambling to his feet and grabbing a pillow to hold in front of himself like a makeshift shield. "I'm sorry! I—I don't know what happened! I swear, I didn't mean to—"
And before I can say another word, he mumbles a quick, "Night, Sugar Plum!" and practically sprints toward the balcony.
The glass door slides shut behind him, leaving me blinking after his retreating figure.
I blink once. Twice.
"OH. MY. GOD! Did that just—"
Outside, I swear I hear him mutter a low "shit" before the night swallows the sound.
I let out a strangled squeak and dive face-first into my bed, muffling the sound against my pillow. My whole body feels like it's on fire—cheeks hot, pulse hammering so hard it might shake the mattress.
CHAPTER thirty-four
CAROLINE
The moment I step out of my room, the smell hits me—freshly brewed coffee, warm and nutty, wrapping around me like a cozy hug. Then comes the rest—turkey bacon sizzling, fluffy omelets, and avocado toast.
As I pad down the stairs, I can already hear music drifting through the house—soft, nostalgic, and way too romantic for this hour of the morning. My parents' Sunday playlist. Air Supply. Of course.
Every Sunday, without fail, they blast songs from the classics—Air Supply, The Carpenters, Chicago, The Beatles, all that "love lasts forever" kind of stuff.
They call it their "Weekend rewind." (Don't ask.)
It's not really my type of music, but honestly? I love it. Those songs sound like home—like Saturday pancakes, rainy afternoons, and being five years old again, dancing on my dad's feet in the kitchen.
When I finally reach the bottom step, I spot Dad at the stove, spatula in hand, dramatically belting out "Making Love Out of Nothing at All" like he's auditioning for a world tour.
He twirls around with his ridiculous dad grin, setting down a plate of freshly cooked turkey bacon and omelets in front of Mom—who, by the way, looks way too entertained.
My heart does this weird flip thing, because—God help me—the scene instantly reminds me of Zach who was serenading me in front of the entire arena last night.
The memory hits like a slap and a swoon rolled into one.
Cue mental highlight reel: him grinning like an idiot, the crowd screaming, his voice painfully out of tune but somehow still managing to melt my insides like butter on hot toast.
I sink my face in my hands, already blushing. Great.
It's barely 9 A.M., and I'm reliving my own public humiliation-slash-romantic-comedy moment.
Somewhere out there, an army of jealous Ridgewater fangirls is probably in a candlelit circle right now, crafting matching voodoo dolls with my face on them and taking turns cursing me.
Honestly, I'm half-expecting to feel a sharp jab in my leg or my arms breaking any second now.
Meanwhile, my parents are being... well, them.
Dad's serenading Mom like she's the only woman left on Earth, and she's looking up at him like she still can't believe he chose her thirty years ago. They're all smiley and flirty and heart-eyes over coffee and bacon, and I swear, sometimes it's too much.
When I was younger, watching them act like newlyweds made me want to gag.
Now? I kinda get it. I want that kind of love someday—the kind that's loud, ridiculous, and still full of music even after decades together.
"Morning," I say, walking in with a knowing smirk.
They both turn toward me at the same time, beaming like I just made their whole day. "Good morning, sweetheart," they chorus in unison.
I lean over to kiss Dad's cheek, then bend down to kiss Mom's. Dad gestures to the plate he's already sliding my way. "Sit, sit. Breakfast's hot. You look like you could use some fuel."
"Thanks, Chef Dad." I grin, dropping into the seat next to Mom. "You planning to serenade every woman you cook for, or should I be jealous on Mom's behalf?"
Mom chuckles, swatting his arm lightly. Dad just shrugs, puffing his chest out. "Hey, what can I say? The spirit of Air Supply moves me."
"Oh yeah?" I tease. "Pretty sure the neighbors are moved too. They probably think there's a karaoke bar operating out of our kitchen."
He points the spatula at me, mock-serious. "Don't mock greatness, young lady. You're looking at a man who once made your mother fall in love to this very song."
Mom sighs dreamily, smiling at him like he's still the boy who sat next to her in freshman econ and shared his notes just to have an excuse to talk to her.
And I can't help it—I smile too.
Dad finally slides into his usual spot at the head of the table, coffee mug in one hand, still humming the last line of the song under his breath.
"So," he says, glancing up at me with that knowing dad look, "how was the game last night?"
My parents share a quick look—one of those silent exchanges that basically says we're dying to know but trying to play it cool.
I knew this was coming.
I told them the other day that I was going to Zach's game and wouldn't be home early Saturday night, and they were... shocked, to put it mildly.
They've known about the fallout since high school—well, their version of it anyway. I never told them the full story, only that Zach broke my heart and that I needed to get out of town for college. They never questioned it, just supported me like they always do.
"The game was great," I say, grabbing a piece of avocado toast and taking a bite. "Zach's team won."
Dad's brows lift. "Oh yeah?"
I nod, mouth full, bobbing my head like a happy seal. "Mhm. Four-two. It got pretty intense near the end. The other team was playing dirty—checking guys into the boards, tripping, all that."
Dad chuckles, stirring his coffee. "That's hockey for you. Can't spell sportsmanship without a few bruises."
Mom rolls her eyes, smiling. "Your father thinks blood on the ice counts as strategy."
"Hey," Dad says, raising his mug defensively, "it builds character."
Then Mom turns back to me, her smile softening. "Still, that's great news. I'm happy Zach and his team won."
Dad nods, grinning. "Yeah, that's really great. He's always been a solid player—no surprise there."
Mom chuckles. "Still, it must've been exciting to watch in person."
I just smile, trying not to look too giddy. Because, yeah—it was exciting. Maybe a little too much.
Mom tilts her head, giving me that gentle, knowing smile only moms seem to master. "I guess you two are trying to patch things up, huh?"
I freeze for half a second.