Page 82 of Pucking One Night Stand
And I sit there, holding a glass of not-wine, surrounded by fairy lights, trying not to laugh. Or cry. Or fall in love a second time.
I take a sip. It's… actually decent. Smooth, not too sweet, and it doesn't taste like grape juice's awkward cousin pretending to be grown-up.
My bag vibrates like it’s possessed. I dig around blindly and pull out my phone, the screen lighting up with the name that makes me roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain something.
Jaxon, my ex.
Oh, you've got to be kidding me.
I tap the message open with a sigh, already dreading whatever sad-boy nonsense he’s about to throw at me.
Cass. I'm in Vegas. Come meet me right now. PLEASEEEEE???
I huff, type two words, and hit send without mercy.
GO AWAY.
Just then, the sliding door reopens, and Blake comes out, apron gone, but with oven mitts clinging to his hands that hold a tray.
The lasagna is… black.
He sets it down and winces. “I am so sorry. It should still be edible.”
I glance at the poor, scorched mess on the tray. The corners are curling like ancient scrolls. But he looks at me like he’s waiting to be graded. Like he cares.
Well, he tried.
I grab the serving spoon and scoop up a chunk that looks like it may or may not be legally flammable. “We’re eating it,” I say, putting some on both plates.
We both take a bite.
Oh, dear.
It tastes burnt, while the lasagna sheets are still hard and not cooked properly. Still, I push on.
And Blake? He just looks confused. “Brody told me that it was easy to cook. Said it was one thing I couldn't ruin. Bull shitter,” he smiles.
Halfway through, he throws his cutlery down, stands up, and walks around the table.
“Are you—” I start, but he crouches beside me and leans in.
He’s looking at my chest. Which… fair. I did put some effort in.
But then he reaches forward, and with a slow, deliberate swipe of his thumb, he wipes something off the top of my dress.
Lasagna. A splatter. A smudge of tomato.
I look at my plate, then at him. And I know exactly what I want more. And it is definitely not what’s on the plate.
His fingers move to my chin, tilting it gently until I’m looking right into his eyes, those ridiculous deep eyes that I could fall into and drown if I wasn’t careful.
“The food is lovely, Blake,” I say, trying to hold a straight face.
His mouth twitches. “You’re a bull shitter as well.”
His thumb brushes my jaw. “It tastes terrible.” He pauses, eyes dropping to my lips before he kisses me. Softly at first. Barely there. Like he’s asking.
I answer.
