Fourteen #2
‘Shut up.’ I pinch the sliver of lower back exposed by his shirt riding up – I briefly lament our current position preventing me from being able to get a peek at the tanned, toned skin. ‘You wrote it.’
‘Using your notes.’
‘Oh my God.’ Groaning, I reel back. I swear I mean to gently slap a little sense into him – somehow, I end up cupping his face instead. ‘Stop that. You did good. Let a girl be proud of her boyfriend.’
Pretty eyes blink and widen.
‘Fake,’ I rush to spit out, to amend. ‘Fake boyfriend.’
‘Right.’ Something flashes across his face, gone before I can decipher it, forgotten when he twists to kiss my palm. ‘Thank you, Daniela.’
I swallow thickly, my gaze fixed on the spot where his lips meet my skin. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘Got you something.’ Barely leaving my grip, he reaches for his bag. A second of blind rustling later, something dangles in my peripheral vision. ‘Well, made you something, technically.’
Head turning, my lips part with entirely too sharp an inhale.
God, I’m embarrassed by how gingerly I take the little item from him, how reverently my thumb traces the smooth edge of a cornflower-blue miniature surfboard, how hard I laugh at the tiny letters carved onto the nose, encircled in a crooked heart. ‘Death?’
‘Dani and Heath,’ he informs me, as if it’s obvious.
I laugh again. I love it. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything more. I grin like a loser as I snag my keys and, using the chain drilled into the tail between two teeny fins, attach it to my keyring. ‘You really made this?’
‘I am a man of many talents.’
Do I hallucinate the sly, seductive note to his tone? Probably. All this smiling is making me downright silly. ‘I can’t wait to see what you get me when you pass this class.’
‘A full-size one,’ he promises, and I don’t even get the chance to delve further into that little nugget of information, because, abruptly, I realize that my hand is still on his face.
Because I feel the pull of his muscles as his mouth curves upwards, feel that dimple form, feel the weight of his head just a little more heavily.
‘But this is for something else, actually.’
‘What?’
‘You forgot about our one-month anniversary? I’m wounded.’
‘It’s been a month? Really?’
‘Time flies when you’re having fun, huh?’ He kisses me again, my wrist this time, before standing. ‘You doing anything tonight?’
Dropping to my lap, my hand feels so very warm as it curls into a ball. Toying with my little present, I try to remember the last time something made me feel so fuzzy – I fail to recall ever feeling fucking fuzzy. ‘I have practice.’
‘After?’
I shake my head.
‘Wrong. We’re having dinner. My place.’
‘Shouldn’t we, like, go out? Be seen?’
‘Do you wanna go out?’
‘No.’
With a smug little brow pump, he repeats, ‘My place. We’ll take pictures. The internet will disintegrate with jealousy.’
My head ducks, hiding a too-big smile. ‘You cooking?’
His mouth quirks. ‘Actually—’
An abrupt yell cuts him off. Yelling, I should I say. Lots of it. A hell of a commotion coming from somewhere within the shelves.
‘Is that who I think it is?’
Nose scrunched, I grin. God knows I would recognize Ben’s disapproving tone anywhere – Sienna’s shrill squawk is pretty recognizable too.
Their argument, on the other hand, isn’t so clear.
But even though I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the furious gist.
‘Damn.’ Heath lets loose a short whistle. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘Sounds pretty good to me.’
He shakes his head, tutting. ‘Reveling in their misery. Shame on you.’
‘Oh, you’ll hate to see me when they break up.’
‘You’re rooting for that?’
His crumpled brow causes me pause. ‘Of course I am.’
That frown of his gets even harsher. Jesus, I better not ever let it slip that sometimes, occasionally, I hope they fucking die. Peacefully, of course, like, in their sleep or something, but still.
‘Did you forget that, at my core, I am a bitter witch?’
‘Can’t forget something I never thought in the first place,’ he corrects, so smooth, all honest. ‘Just forget sometimes that you care about him.’
‘Cared,’ I correct, nose crinkling. ‘Don’t anymore. Wish I never did.’
Heath doesn’t quite look like he believes me. He looks . . . worried, almost. He tries so valiantly to hide it, though, that I pretend I don’t notice.
Hot breath brushes my neck, commanding me to go, ‘Harder.’
Huffing hard enough to displace the loose hair around my face, I really put my weight into the smooth, methodical movements.
Inked, ring-adorned fingers sweep my hair back, tug on the tail of my fishtail braid. ‘Too hard.’
‘Do it yourself, then,’ I snap over my shoulder, and a low laugh pimples my skin with goosebumps.
Heath moves from my back to my side, arms crossed as he leans against his kitchen island. Wearing a boyish, goofy smile, he dips a hand into the open bag of flour on the counter and flicks his white-stained fingertips at me. ‘Then it wouldn’t be you learning to cook, now would it?’
Deadpan, I contemplate lobbing the entire ball of yet-to-be-properly-kneaded dough at his head. ‘This is why you’ve never had a girlfriend,’ I grumble, and not for the first time in the past hour. ‘Because you invite women over for dinner, and then you make them make it.’
‘Hey, baby, this is your bucket list.’
‘It’s not a bucket list.’ It’s not even a list. It was just . . . thoughts. Throwaway ideas, coaxed out by him, now being used by him for his own personal freaking gain.
While I’m hard at work perfecting my dough – my third batch because I already made pasta, and my first garlic rosemary focaccia .
. . well, I maintain that Heath set me up by handing me sugar instead of salt on purpose – he leisurely sips wine.
Stirs the simple tomato sauce bubbling on the stove every so often.
Instructs me like he’s the fucking Barefoot Contessa.
Granted, my own wine glass is regularly refilled.
Sure, every dirty dish I create is promptly washed.
Yes, we both wear aprons, matching fucking aprons, two stained swathes of fabric printed with commands to kiss the cook.
And I swear that when I put my pasta in the pantry to rest, I spotted a suspicious oiled, covered bowl that could definitely be some kind of back-up, but still.
I feel obligated to point out, ‘This is a very old-fashioned picture.’
As he knocks back merlot, Heath laughs over the rim of his glass. ‘Yeah, I’m practically a caveman. Man teach woman cook. Grunt grunt.’
I elbow him, fighting a smile. I’ve been fighting smiles since I found a freaking cooking show waiting for me, ingredients neatly laid out and a damn mirepoix – said in a very sorry rendition of a French accent, I have to note – already sautéing.
Because despite all my grumbling, I’m enjoying myself.
The cooking and the wine and the banter, the soundtrack Heath had no reservations informing me was painfully curated – I can admit that I like it.
It’s how much that’s the problem.
It’s a date, I said earlier, without even thinking about it, and, shit, that’s exactly what it feels like. There isn’t any motive. No one to make jealous. Nothing to study. It’s just us. Hanging out. Alone.
It’s intimate – that’s my real issue. Even as I finish with my bread and Heath whisks it away to rest, and we move onto making meatballs.
I’m fucking massaging raw meat with fingertips that reek of garlic, Heath is laughing at the faces I’m pulling, I’m kicking his shins, we aren’t even actually dating, and there’s a silly little parasite in my cerebrum thinking teehee. How romantic.
It’s not a date, yet it’s the best date I’ve ever been on – that’s the fucking root of it. And a pretty sobering thought too. Something I’m sure I’ll pick over relentlessly the minute I’m alone.
‘So,’ Heath pulls himself up to sit on the counter. ‘How was your day, honey?’
I let a greedy gulp of wine speak for me.
‘Your team giving you shit?’
If shit is a synonym for cold shoulder, then sure. Plenty. But I’d rather not get into it, so I shrug. The second his mouth opens again, I slap a hand over it. ‘Can we please talk about something else?’
A whine heats my palm, but Heath nods. Nipping me hard enough that I pull away with a laughed curse, he snags my hand within his own and rubs soothing circles over the imprint of his damn canines. ‘Fine. Ask me how my day was.’
Stifling an eye roll, I oblige. ‘How was your day?’
A pale brow crooks expectantly.
This time, I don’t stifle anything. ‘Honey.’
His sigh is so pleased, it makes my stomach hurt. ‘My day was fine.’
‘Just fine?’
‘Hm. Sucks when being a college student means you actually have to go to classes, hey?’
‘That’s the best part of my day.’
‘My little freak,’ he croons softly, so obviously joking, but it still pokes at a sore spot.
I snatch my hand away, curling it into a fist behind my back while the other tightens around my wine glass so much, I half-expect the stem to snap. ‘God forbid I worked my ass off to get a scholarship and I actually wanna keep it, hey?’
‘Woah, baby.’ Heath lunges for me before I even make it two steps away, pulling me close again and trapping me between his spread thighs. ‘I was kidding.’
‘I like school,’ I snap, I defend; I’m so used to having to do it, it comes naturally. ‘You like taking on the ocean and hoping you won’t drown. But I’m the freak?’
‘You’re not a freak. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’
Arms crossed, I tuck my chin to my chest and stay quiet.
‘Is there anything about you,’ he says quietly, so cautious, ‘that Ben didn’t rip to fucking shreds?’