Page 51 of Love Rewritten

Logan returns from his room with his phone in hand and he shoves his wallet in his pocket. “You two good? I’m headed to a uh … friend’s house for the night.”

“Yeah, we’re good. Have a good night.” Dallas fakes a salute to him, and he heads out the door.

We both look at each other and burst out laughing.

Once I catch my breath, I say, “A friend? That’s code for ‘I got a booty call and need to leave ASAP before she changes her mind.’”

Dallas catches his breath and agrees. “He’s never been sneaky about it. He’s far too easy to read. He might as well come right out and say it. It would be way less awkward, for him and everyone else.”

I shake my head and get back to the task at hand.

The flour is on the second shelf in the pantry, and I’m shocked when I find half a container of breadcrumbs next to it. I start the rice before finding a few larger bowls to make a three-step system of flour, egg, and breadcrumbs and start heating a pan of oil to fry the chicken in. Dallas finishes chopping the broccoli and starts shredding the cheese.

I don’t know how, but Dallas and I haven’t ever cooked together like this. Out of the three of us, it’s always only been one person who’s made the meal. It’s easy with him. We flow together at a rather effortless pace. And I find it adorable. The way he sneaks glances at me out of the corner of his eye when he thinks I’m not looking. It’s a small kitchen, so when he moves past me, a hand on the small of my back lets me know he’s there. He presses a kiss to my cheek when he passes, too.

All of it makes me blush. I’m not sure why. It’s not like this is new territory for us, but all the small gestures make my heart leap and flutter like the excitement of a teenage crush. I can’t keep myself from smiling. Neither can Dallas.

The now-coated chicken gets set into the heated oil. The sizzling makes me jump backward and I topple the bowl of flour. It hits my back and goes flying across the kitchen, coating almost every surface in the white powder. All I can do is stand there in shock, mouth hanging open while Dallas almost keels over from laughter, gripping his ribs like they’re going to fall out.

The mostly empty bowl of flour sits tipped on its side at the edge of the counter when I carefully turn around. Dallas is still laughing the hardest I’ve seen him laugh. Of course, most of the flour missed him so his black shirt is mostly spotless. Can’t have that now, can we? So, I scoop up some leftover flour and fling it at him, leaving a bright white streak of powder across his chest.

“Oh, is that what we’re doing now?” He says, finding a pile of flour next to him and carefully pushing it off the counter into his hand. He holds it up, ready to strike with a wide grin. “You really want to have a food fight?”

I shrug, fully aware of what I’m starting. And then he throws his fist full of flour at me, coating my face and dusting it into my black hair, now making it look gray.

I can’t help but laugh at what I started. I don’t remember the last time I had a food fight, if ever.

I reach for the broccoli scraps behind me and chuck them at him as he reaches for the rest of the breadcrumbs in the other bowl. A piece of broccoli sticks in his hair, and one slips through the collar of his shirt, making him jump. Another piece lands in the oil, making it spit and sputter. The breadcrumbs stick in my hair before piling on the kitchen floor. Oil spray from the pan hits the backsplash, the rest of the stove, and the counter.

He grabs for the kitchen towel that hangs on the oven handle and swings it in the air in surrender. “Okay, white flag! You win! You win!”

I laugh and bow, some of the breadcrumbs in my hair joining the rest on the messy floor. He grabs the tongs and pulls the piece of broccoli out of the pan before lifting the fried chicken pieces out and setting them on a plate with a paper towel. I head to the hall closet to find the broom.

By the time we've wiped the counters and cabinets off and have the floor swept clean, the rice is almost done, and Dallas starts combining everything into a large pan to mix it together like a casserole.

I take a seat on the barstool to watch him finish making dinner, sipping on my glass of water. “I need a shower,” I say when he hands me a full plate of food.

He laughs and tries brushing some more of the white streaks off his shirt but to no avail. It doesn’t move or fade. “Me, too.”

We eat mostly in silence, but Dallas can’t help but poke fun at me. He points with his fork to a spot on one of the cabinets that’s still coated in white. “You missed a spot.” I roll my eyes and shove his shoulder. He laughs through a mouth full of food. “Hey, you started it.”

“I have no regrets.”

“I’m going to be scrubbing flour out of my hair for weeks.”

I purse my lips. “Sounds like a you problem.”

“Could be ayouproblem.” He shoves a final bite of food in his mouth, gets up to set his plate in the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes, and disappears down the hall before I can see the sly grin he’s no doubt wearing with pride.

I can practically see his thoughts when he grabs two towels from the hall closet and disappears through the bathroom door. I frantically shovel the rest of my food in my mouth and stick my plate in the sink on top of his. I peek my head into the bathroom as he’s hanging the first towel over the rail next to the shower. He knew I’d follow. I move the rest of the way into the room, and he hangs the second one before turning around, hands resting on my hips.

I smile up at him, my hands already finding the bottom hem of his shirt. “This shower is not nearly big enough for two people.” I lift his shirt, and he slides it the rest of the way off. I’ll never get used to seeing his bare chest, or his naked form. He’s too gorgeous for his own good.

He looks at the shower, the water already on, and says, “Well, then I guess we’ll just have to get really close to each other.”

“I suppose that’s not such a bad thing.”

He pulls my shirt over my head, more breadcrumbs falling to the floor, and I step out of the rest of my clothes while Dallas does the same. He hops in and offers me a hand to follow.

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