Page 22 of Maid of Dishonor

“I assume you’re all out of chocolate?”

I glance at the empty bag of chocolate chips next to the ibuprofen on the nightstand. “Yes,” I say in a small, pathetic voice.

Okay, maybe I am a little whiny. Which I’m fully aware is obnoxious. But Carter uses the same voice to complain whenever I ask him to come talk to my first graders about different kinds of exercise, so I think we’re even.

“Did you check the top shelf of your pantry?” Carter says, pulling me back to our conversation. “That’s where I put the last bag I bought you.”

“That’s the bag I finished,” I say sadly.

He chuckles. “Give me a half hour and I’ll be over. Anything else you need?”

“No,” I say. “But I’ll pay you in baked goods later in the week?”

“Oatmeal raisin.”

“A dozen oatmeal raisin,” I say with a nod. I always feel better knowing I can pay him back, even if it’s with cookies. It’s how I delude myself into thinking we’re on even footing.

But it really is a delusion. Because how am I ever supposed to be good enough for someone who finds his best friend sobbing over a book and promptly dries her tears? He’s a complete cinnamon roll. A soft, sweet center wrapped up in a bunch of deliciousness.

I just need to figure out if I can make him mine.

* * *

When Carter arrives,I’ve forced myself to get out of bed and shower. His eyes make a quick scan of my fluffy robe—almost so quick I miss it—and I spend the next thirty seconds analyzing whether the body scan is new or if he always does that. It’s not a particularly good use of my brain power or time, since the most likely outcome will just be my eventual insanity. I am glad, though, that he sounded totally normal on the phone—not weird or awkward.

“Here,” he says, holding up two bags of chocolate chips and grinning. “Do you want them in the pantry or directly on the nightstand?”

“Call me out, why don’t you,” I say, but I can’t stop my smile. “One in the pantry and one on the counter, please and thank you.” I point to my little television, which is paused on a very pink credits scene, producer and actor names written in a curly white font. “I just found a movie. Want to watch with me?”

He wrinkles his nose. “If I stay, I’d prefer to watch the game.”

I shrug; it’s all the same to me. I’ll probably be curled up praying for a swift death anyway. “That’s fine. Go ahead and find it.”

I excuse myself to get dressed while he starts flipping through channels, making himself comfortable in what I’ve come to think of ashiscorner of the sofa. He always sits in that left corner, elbow propped on the arm of the couch, the ankle of one leg crossed over the knee of the other.

I leave him to it and make my way to my room. I try not to stress out about the outfit I choose, but it’s hard. Because it feels both like thingshavechanged and like theyhaven’t. We kissed. Carter and Ikissed.But we’re acting like it didn’t happen—which I’m good with for the moment—and if this were an alternate universe where we hadn’t kissed, I wouldn’t be worrying about my clothes.

But…the fact is, wedidkiss. Even if we’re acting like we didn’t…we did. And am I extra aware today of how well he fills out a standard t-shirt? Yes. Yes, I am. White has always been a fantastic color on him—it contrasts with his golden skin and makes his blue eyes pop. I would have noticed and appreciated all that before, but now that we’ve kissed, it’s like I’m seeing everything for the first time.

Is he going to be seeing things the same way? Is he going to be looking at me with new eyes?

In the end, I compromise. I grab a green t-shirt, because t-shirts are the majority of the tops I own, and wear them over a pair of jean cutoffs. The shirt is classic, standard, not-trying-to-impress-anyone Sam. The jean cutoffs are still very me, but they also make my legs look great. Being five-nine works in my favor in that department.

My hair is still wet, but I’m not going to drag the hairdryer out right now, so it will have to do.

It’s time. I’m going to do this.

I go back out to the little living room and swipe the bag of chocolate chips off the kitchenette counter before settling on the couch. Carter gives a grunt of greeting but doesn’t take his eyes away from the screen—not that surprising, given that the man lives and breathes baseball. The Cardinals aren’t playing, but he still loves watching.

I stretch my legs out, and without looking at me he moves the arm that’s resting in his lap so that I can put my feet there. Once I’m good, he resettles so that his hand now rests on top of my crossed ankles.

We sit like this frequently, and I’m always hyperaware of him, of the way his thumb caresses my ankle without him seeming to notice. But today there may as well be a Taser attached to his hands, because all I can focus on is the electricity running through me at his touch.

His completelyinnocenttouch, on myankle. It’s not like the ankle or foot is an erogenous zone. But the man in front of me can somehow make that touch totally captivating. I honestly couldn’t tell you who’s playing on the TV right now, much less the score.

When I open the bag of chocolate chips, introducing a loud crinkling sound into the room, Carter startles. I watch his eyes leave the screen and drop instead to my feet in his lap, like this is the first time he even realizes they’re there. Then his gaze slowly follows my legs—holy crap so slowly—all the way up my body. Everything his eyes touch feels electric, and my heart is flying faster than Aroldis Chapman’s record-breaking 105 mph pitch in the 2016 Yankees vs. Orioles game.

Until Carter’s eyes meet mine, that is. When his eyes meet mine, everything inside me just…stops.

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