Page 32 of Make Her Mine

Everyone but Jefferson. And Graham, who occasionally got to witness my outbursts with Jefferson.

That always frustrated Graham, though, so Jefferson and I got to the point where we would save our arguments for when Graham wasn’t around.

“I’m not gonna make my baked manicotti for you though,” Jefferson says as we step onto the path that leads across the square.

“Because you’re the most annoying person I know?” I ask thinking that stuffed manicotti sounds pretty fucking great.

“Because mine is amazing, and I’m pretty sure that would make you start taking your clothes off. And that could get complicated.”

I laugh.

I wasn’t expecting him to say something like that and I definitely wasn’t expecting it to make me laugh, but I do.

He grins. “Then again, that would make this whole week even more fun.”

“You think baked manicotti is what it takes? Please. That’s such an easy recipe. You have to at least sauté something before any clothes come off. And I need dessert.”

His grin grows and I have a feeling he expected me to say something snarky instead of teasing back.

“Oh, we don’t even want to get into dessert,” he says. “You’ll take your clothes off, beg me to take mine off, and never leave my house if I make dessert for you. I mean, yeah, it would be fun, but what do we tell our families when we’re only supposed to be faking this for a week?”

I don’t know how to respond to this. I have never, ever, in all the years I have known him, flirted with Jefferson Riley.

But that’s what this feels like.

And he’s pretty good at it. Because my skin feels a little tingly and I want to keep going.

And the fact that no one else is around, so this is not a part of our little show, is confusing.

“Good thing this week is going to be full of funnel cakes, wedding cake, and caramel apples, then,” I tell him.

He winks at me, and I’m shocked to feel my tingly skin get warmer.

“Yeah, good thing.”

I force my thoughts away from what kind of dessert Jefferson might be good at. His mother is an amazing baker and candy maker. He’d come by it naturally.

“So, you tell your friends, I’ll tell mine, as quickly as possible,” I say, turning the conversation back to the plan for the week. The only reason we’d be spending any time together. The only reason we’d be eating any meals together.

“Sounds good,” he agrees.

We’re not holding hands as we cross the square this time, and I think for a moment about being the one to reach out and take his. He might fall over from a heart attack. Which would be interesting. Maybe I could play the part of a sad-pseudo-widow instead of a girlfriend.

I’m pondering Jefferson’s demise, which feels a lot more comfortable than thinking about eating dessert with him naked, when suddenly there’s shouting and a bang, and we both turn toward the commotion on the other side of the gazebo. The swearing is coming from Travis Bennett, who is working with his brother Tucker and two of Tucker’s sons, seemingly trying to put together the dunk tank for the upcoming festival.

Jefferson takes off at a jog without a word.

I follow behind slower.

By the time I get there, Jefferson already has a big piece of sheet metal braced with both hands while Travis works to move another piece into place.

A couple other guys from town have also come over from whatever they were doing. There are now seven men working to wrangle the pieces of the very old, well-used dunk tank.

“Just brace that part there,” Travis calls.

Jefferson shifts, moving one hand to pull a piece of metal into place. Travis moves in beside him with a power drill.

“Okay, go!” Tucker yells from the other side.

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