Page 80 of Riding the Pine

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say “Sí, Papi,” but I bite it down, my face heating with the power of ten fires, and instead, I simply nod.

He studies my face like he’s scented something, but after a beat he jerks his head. “Come on, we’re making dinner. Everything else is upstairs.”

Upstairs? “You mean on the roof?”

His smile widens, and everything about him radiates joy, like a new puppy spinning in circles chasing its tail. “Yeah, sound okay?”

Pizza on the roof with my guy sounds pretty romantic to me. There’s a great view of downtown Cedar Rapids from myrooftop. And a space heater, because it’s fucking February and if the space heater isn’t working, we’re going to have to abort that plan and move inside.

We spend a few minutes kneading dough, our elbows touching while we work the stretchy substance out on the counter. Scott stuffs his crust with mozzarella sticks, and when he’s done, we place our pizza bases in a pizza pan. We add tomato sauce, select toppings from Scott’s pizza topping buffet, and now it makes sense why he has blue Band-Aids on each of his thumbs, my boy chopped everything himself, from scratch.

Also explains why I was out of the house for so long today. He’s so teeth-erodingly sweet.

While our pizzas cook, he pours us each a glass of Champagne, then holds out his glass ready for a clink.

“To the person who sees me.” The words stick on their way out of my mouth, like they’ve steeped in honey and are slow to escape. “And the person I love more than Twizzlers and Top Gun.”

His eyes glisten with warmth as he clinks his glass against mine. “That’s high praise, Athena.” He tips his head to the side. “Not sure I could say that I love you more than hockey…” He purses his lips together like he’s actually weighing up which he loves more.

“Hockey can’t suck your cock.” It’s the simple truth, and if you can find me a man who isn’t led through life by his penis-y penis, I’ll eat my words.

He lifts his glass a little higher. “To the woman I love more than hockey.”

That’s what I fucking thought.

He smiles at me as we each take a sip from our glasses. About twenty minutes later, we’re both wearing sweaters, he’s got his UCR Raccoons ball cap on back to front, and we’re standing at the door to the roof with three pizza boxes, and a cooler with therest of the bottle of Champagne in it—though it’s cold enough out here the cooler was probably wishful thinking. He didn’t let me carry any of it.

When the door swings open, I can see why. The sight in front of me takes my breath away, and both hands fly to my face to drown out a gasp. There are strings of lights hung across the rooftop space. There’s a giant beanbag-seat-thing which might simply be a stack of blankets and quilts facing the wall next to another food buffet. Only this time, it’s snacks, popcorn and candy.

Pizza, snuggles, snacks, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s got a projector set up to show something on the wall.

How is this my life? Overwhelm threatens to swallow me whole, my jaw shakes, my eyes fill with tears. I’ve never been so emotional until I let Scott Fucking Raine inside my heart, and now I feel like a weak ass crybaby.

Shit. This man is good.

He’s staring at my face, watching my every reaction. When I don’t say anything—not because I don’t want to, but because the words are all caught in my windpipe—he simply walks toward the giant cuddle pod, puts his haul down, turns to me, and opens his arms.

I rush to him, gripping his cheeks with both my sweater-covered hands and kiss the ever-loving-shit out of him until neither of us can kiss for another second unless we take a breath.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “I love it so much.”

He casts his eyes to the side like he’s looking at his work. “Are you sure? If you’d rather we get dressed up and go out, I don’t mind. I just thought with all your?—”

I stop his lips with another kiss. I don’t need to know why he did it, I don’t need to be offered alternatives to something that’s already perfect. “Stop doubting yourself, Scottie.” The words areso full of emotion I’m hoping he pays real attention to them. “I don’t ever want to change you.”

His face softens, his eyes swirling with a myriad of emotions.

“I will only ever want the same you that I first met, the same you that farts in front of me on the couch, the same you that confesses your love to me in front of my brothers, the same you that loves me so fiercely. Never feel like you’re not enough for me, Scottie, because you’re my everything.”

He nods, but his thumb presses between my brows. “Don’t have sad eyes, Bright Eyes. You know I always want to make you feel better when you’re sad. I’ll always be your shoulder.” He shrugs. “You know, to cry on, or put your feet on, whatever the situation calls for.”

He wiggles his brows, breaking the thick and suffocating tension between us and making us both laugh. “Let’s eat. We have our whole lives to convince each other that our inadequacies aren’t real, but the pizza’s probably cold already.”

Guiding me to the oversized, squishy pillow thing on the ground with his hand on my lower back, he gestures for me to sit down. While I’m shaking my butt into the giant cushion, he sits next to me, serves me my handmade pizza in its box, a tin of Fresca, and hits play on Notting Hill.

Be still my aching heart, this man is such a romantic.

By the time we clear all three pizzas, eat the strawberry, marshmallow, and brownie skewers Scott tells me are responsible for one of the Band-Aids on his hand, and devour the popcorn, the movie is over, and the end credits are coming up on the wall screen.

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