Chapter 23 #2
The small contact launches a parade of even more sinful memories through my mind.
Her showing up at my house after the Halloween party.
Kissing me on my porch.
Straddling me on my couch.
I haven’t been able to set foot in the living room for a week without thinking about her. It’s like she left imprints on the cushions.
And now, I could so easily reach over, swipe the hair away from her eyes, and capture her soft lips with mine.
My hands twitch to do just that, and I nearly drop the pan.
Maren clears her throat. “Thanks,” she whispers. “And thanks again for letting me use your kitchen. The first thing I’m going to do if I win that prize money is buy myself a new stove. It’s at the top of my list.”
“Feel free to use mine anytime—someone should.”
“Not much of a cook, huh?”
“That’s putting it politely.”
“It’s the Southern way.”
“No manners required. Let’s just call it what it is—I’m a terrible fucking cook.”
This earns me a soft laugh, and I notice her shoulders dropping, like she’s lowering her defenses.
Eager for more of that heavenly sound, I say, “I tried making Teagan some French toast for school once, or what I thought was French toast, anyway. Did you know they cover slices of bread with eggs?”
Her laugh grows louder, and I join her.
“What did you think French toast was?” she asks between giggles.
“Toast, with powdered sugar sprinkled on top. I don’t know.”
Maren doubles over, abandoning the dishes as her laughter overpowers the whoosh of the running sink.
And I bask in the sound.
It’s like a lullaby—soothing and hypnotizing.
I love seeing her like this. I wish I could hear her laugh every day.
“How is it possible that you’ve traveled all over the planet, but you don’t know what French toast is?” She regains some composure and resumes washing.
“Easy—I’ve always stuck to basics.” I shrug. “Besides, most of my assignments have been stateside, where bacon and scrambled eggs have been readily available.”
She hums, her lips still curled upward like she’s fighting another laugh. “I forgot how boring you are when it comes to food.”
I exaggerate a scoff. “Not boring. Just classic.”
“And here I thought you were so adventurous.”
“With places, sure, but not with food.”
“Or coffee.”
“What’s wrong with the way I drink coffee? Am I supposed to swirl it around first?”
“I think that’s for wine.” She nudges me with her shoulder, and instinctively, I inhale her lavender scent. “You drink coffee black, like a psychopath.”
“First, I’m boring for my tasteless food choices, and now I’m a psychopath for my coffee order? Make up your mind, Lightning.”
It could be my imagination, but I’m almost certain her breath hitches. It’s what happens each time I use her nickname, and it makes me want to do it over and over again.
“I guess everyone’s allowed a few flaws,” she tosses back.
“Why don’t we talk about yours then?” I arch a brow.
“Hard to do when I don’t have any.” She juts her chin up in mock defiance, and I shake my head.
I’m locked onto her as she rinses the soap off her hands and forearms, the rest of the dishes washed and stacked to the side. Then she unties the knot of her apron around her waist and leans her back against the sink, where she carefully folds it.
“How about the way you fold your apron—right down the center vertically, then twice horizontally? Now that’s what psychopaths do.”
“It’s cute!” she argues.
“Totally.” I set the measuring cups in their designated drawer and face her. “Except who in their right mind requires a cute way to fold an apron?”
She opens and closes her mouth, then turns the sink back on, cups her hands under the water, and honest to God… she splashes me.
“What the hell?” I bark out a laugh and splash her back, flinging water at her with one hand, then the other.
She yelps and jolts backward, which is when I realize my mistake.
My big, stupid mistake.
She’s wearing a fitted white long-sleeve shirt that scoops across her chest… and I just soaked the front. The outline of her bra is far too visible for my liking—in that I like it too much.
I lift my gaze to find her watching me intently, and her chest heaves, rising higher and faster the longer we stare at each other.
On a gulp, she practically squeaks, “See? We can totally be friends.”
The corners of my lips twitch. “Friends don’t think about each other the way I think about you.”
Her lips part. “Were you always this… direct?”
“I wish I would’ve been more direct in the past.”
I let my somewhat confession hang between us, our stares lingering as tension swirls around us, thickening with each passing second. The tension between us has always been like a tornado that multiplies across a field.
I take one step toward her, swallowing the distance between us until my knee brushes hers. “Do you like it when I’m direct?”
Her gaze flits to my mouth, her breaths still labored. If I were to place my palm flat across her chest, I’d bet I could feel her heart rate spike.
“I’ll take your silence as a yes,” I rasp and dip my head, eager to kiss her—it’s all I’ve wanted to do for the last week.
Even when we’re not together, my day revolves around thoughts of Maren.
She lifts her chin as if to welcome me, but loud stomps down the stairs interrupt us. I drift backward as Teagan rounds the corner of the fridge, waving two pieces of paper above her head. “I’m done. Can I have my cookies now?”
“Dinner first,” I say absentmindedly, my focus still glued to Maren.
She rubs the back of her neck, her skin tinged with crimson. “I’m going to, um…” She licks her lips and pivots from side to side like she’s lost, clearly affected by what almost happened between us. “I need to get home.”
She swipes her jacket from the table and power walks out of the house, leaving me with the dopiest grin on my face.
And just like that, my hope grows wings and takes flight.