Page 91 of Desserts for Stressed People

Only once I chuckle, he does too. He goes back to the container, fits his hand inside, then drags it all around my kitchen. On the plastic cover sitting on my white wooden table, on every single cabinet. He dirties the dishes, the sink, the stove, the oven.

“If this is triggering you, let me know,” he says, going in for another dive.

Triggering? Seeing him stain my kitchen with chocolate must be the best thing I’ve ever witnessed. And tonight, I really need to laugh and clean. I point at the window. “Glass is my favorite.”

He slowly closes his eyes and opens them again. “Of course. The most annoying part of home chores.” He tilts his head. “I take the one on the right, you take the one on the left.”

I glance at my light pink shirt covered in cute pandas, then at the chocolate ganache. “Okay,” I say with a shriek, rushing to fit both my hands inside the container and giggling when I pull them out and chocolate falls on top of my blue, fluffy slippers. I walk to the window, leaving a trail of chocolaty footsteps, then position myself in front of it.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod. “Ready.”

I look at the clean, shiny glass. There’s not a single fingerprint on it. I’ve cleaned all the dirt brought by the wind and used a product to make it brighter. But maybe mess isn’talwaysa bad thing. Sometimes, it might be better to make the wrong choice, to act before thinking, to do senseless things and be impulsive.

With my lips pressed tight together, I push my hands against the glass and drag them around until it’s so dirty the light struggles to filter in, and I’m almost out of breath. It’s not because I’m moving around, and it isn’t adrenaline either. It feels...liberating. Like I’m letting go.

Shane’s hand grasps my shoulder, and when I turn to him, he isn’t laughing anymore. Instead, his brows are pulled together. “Are you okay?”

He’s so handsome. I wish I could have him—all of him. “Yes, I am. This is so fun.”

“Want to continue?”

So much. I want to get this apartment filthy. I want the scent of chocolate to permeate the walls. I want to smell it for weeks.

We walk back to the container, bickering over who’s going to dip their hands in first. He shoves my shoulder away as I leave my chocolaty fingerprint over the sleeve of his sweater and erupts into laughter. I’m fairly certain that—chocolate or not—if someone from the office saw him now, they wouldn’t recognize him.

He isn’t stiff, straight as a pencil. Instead, he’s relaxed, moving frantically around the kitchen and meeting my gaze at every chance he gets with an exhilarated grin.

Once our hands are dipped in chocolate ganache, we come up with an action plan. I dirty all the walls of the living room. He focuses on the coffee table and the desk. We’ve probably stained the couch and the carpet forever, and chocolate drips from the painting right onto Alex’s computer screen.

My apartment looks like a dessert crime scene.

When we race each other to the container for another round, I slip on the chocolate and land on my ass. I don’t stop cackling, though my tailbone throbs with pain, and his look of concern quickly turns into a tear-jerking laughter.

“Oh, Heaven,” he says, pulling me up. Since I’ve met him, I’ve fallen in love with my name. He studies my face with a content smile and whispers, “You have some chocolate on your face.”

I’m not surprised, considering we’ve been acting like kindergarteners using chocolate as paint and my apartment as the canvas. “Where?” I ask, fighting the instinct to wipe it away. My hands are still covered in chocolate, I’ll just make it worse.

He points at my nose, then drags his hand across my face until there’s chocolate all the way to my nostrils. There must be some in my lungs too, considering the quick rush of air I inhale.

Taking a step back as chocolate sticks my lashes together, I growl, “Oh, you are so dead,” then dip my hands into the container as he strides away from me to the other side of the table.

“Please, don’t give me that! You knew it was coming,” he says, not even bothering to try and stop his fit of laughter.

I didn’t, but as I hop to one side and he moves quickly to maintain our distance, I smirk. “And you know what’s coming for you now.”

He shakes his head. “You have to get me first.”

Oh, I’ll get him. I’ll get him in his car as he drives away if I have to.

We shift from one side of the table to the other, and I scream at him to give up and succumb, but he just won’t. At every step I take, he moves away, and I’m considering jumping over the table and lunging at him when he puts his hands up. “Okay, okay. We’re at an impasse.”

“We won’t be for much longer if you let me catch you,” I say, sprinting to the right.

He rushes next to the fridge, slipping on the pool of chocolate by the container and causing us both to erupt into more laughter. I don’t think I’ve had so much fun in years.

“I have a proposition,” he says, putting his hands up as he stands on his feet again.

---