Page 86 of Just My Type
The best everrrrrr. So drunk. I wrote a spicy scene on my phone right here on Cece’s couch.
Me
Fuck yes, you did. Send it over.
Hannah
You wish. Maybe I’ll let you read it one day.
Me
Maybe you can read it to me one day.
Hannah
Why do I like that idea?
Me
Because it’s the best idea ever.
Hannah
I think it might be. I miss your face. It’s my favorite face.
Me
Everything about you is my favorite.
Hannah
I like you, Noah. I really, really like you.
Me
I like you right back, Gorgeous.
Setting my phone down on the table, I join my brothers and my dad to toss some axes, smile on my face the whole damn time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
HANNAH
“Okay but what doeswhisk constantlymean?” I ask, frowning into the saucepan on Noah’s stove, whisk in hand. “How fast am I supposed to be whisking? Do I whisk in a circle? A zig-zag to make sure the whisk touches all the liquid? I’m not sure you gave me enough instructions.”
Noah chuckles, coming to stand behind me, his hands finding my hips and his lips landing on my neck. A shiver works its way down my spine at his proximity, even as I focus intently on my task. “You’re doing fine. Perfectly, in fact.”
“But is it supposed to be all cloudy like that? I thought it was supposed to be more yellow. Maybe we should have made something less complicated. I told you baking wasn’t my thing. I’m more of athrow ingredients together and hope for the bestkind of girl. The precision baking requires makes my palms sweat.”
Noah wraps his arms around my waist and props his chin on my shoulder. “You told me lemon meringue is your favorite pie. When you’re baking in my kitchen, you should have your favorite.”
I roll my eyes, even as I feel a shot of warmth at his wordsbecause I mentioned one single time weeks ago that I love lemon meringue pie and the next thing I knew I was standing in Noah’s kitchen, all the necessary ingredients lined up on the counter, while he waved a recipe under my nose and told me we were baking together.
Still whisking the mixture warily, I lean back, loving the feel of his hard body against mine. “It’s my favorite Thanksgiving pie. It’s August. We could have made something more summer appropriate.”
I can feel Noah’s smile against my skin when he presses a kiss to my cheek. “What says summer more than lemon meringue pie? It’s literally the color of sunshine. And I happen to have had Cece’s famous recipe right in my possession. It’s like fate.”
Noah takes my left hand in his, winding our fingers together as my right hand keeps up its whisking. When the wedding bands we’re wearing for our date night click together, we both look down, as if on instinct, and I know his smile matches mine. It’s the involuntary smile. The one that stretches across my face every time I glimpse my hand next to his, seeing the simple matching rings we wear when we’re pretending to be married in a way that barely feels like pretending at all. The hand that is starting to feel strangely empty without the weight of the silver band when I take it off. I don’t think I’m quite ready to explore the meaning of that.
