Page 105 of Practice Makes Perfect
“The funny thing is, most of the time I just cook for the hockey team these days,” I continue. “Try it before it gets cold.”
Em tries it and makes a sound that’s borderline obscene. “Oh my God, Linc. Your dad is officially my hero.”
“Glad you like it.”
She takes another bite, closing her eyes again. “My grandmother was the one who taught me to cook.”
“Yeah?” I’m not just making conversation—I genuinely want to know more about her.
She nods, swallowing before she speaks. “Mom loves cooking, but she’s always working. It was Grandma Penelope making meals. She’d love you, by the way.”
“Because I appreciate good food?”
“That, and she has a thing for hockey players.” Em smirks. “But you’ll need to discover a love for reality TV if we’re to stay together.”
The casual way she’s discussing a future with me makes my heart leap, and I laugh, nearly choking on my wine. “Your grandmother sounds like a character.”
“You have no idea. She’s like eighty percent of my personality, but with more swearing in French.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment, and I find myself staring at her, still not quite believing she’s here, in my apartment, on a date with me. It’s something that feels so good in the marrow of my bones, and I can’t believe I almost didn’t let myself have this.
“So what about your mom?” Em asks, breaking my reverie. “You mentioned she’s into your hockey?”
“That’s… an understatement.” I try to keep my tone light. “Mom’s my biggest fan. She’s great—always believes in me—but sometimes she’s…”
“Too much?” Em supplies gently.
I look up, surprised by her perceptiveness. “Yeah,” I say, then pause. “Sorry, that sounds whiny.”
“It doesn’t.” She reaches across the table to touch my hand. “It sounds human. Like you’re trying to figure out where her dreams end and yours begin.”
“I guess I am.” I turn my hand over to lace our fingers together. “Why are you so wise, Amélie Dubois?”
“Well, they say dark chocolate and avocados make you smarter, and my body is 80% those two foods, so…” She grins. “You’ve got time to figure it out, Linc…”
“I only have one semester left,” I remind her.
“That’s plenty of time.” Her thumb traces patterns on my palm. “And hey, I’m figuring stuff out too. Like having sex with boys.”
My breath hitches. “Just boys in general? Or one specific boy?”
Her eyes meet mine, a mischievous glint in them. “I’mthinkingof narrowing it down to one…”
“Good choice.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “I hear hockey players have excellent stamina.”
“So I’ve heard. But I might need empirical evidence.”
By now, we’re almost done with the food, and we’re definitelydonewith the food. So I stand up, still holding her hand, and move around the table until I’m right beside her chair. Bending down, I kiss her properly this time, slow and deep, about as romantic as I can make it.
“How’s that for evidence?” I murmur against her lips.
“Inconclusive.” Her fingers curl into my shirt. “I need a larger sample size.”
I kiss her again, harder, my hand sliding into her hair. Her mouth opens beneath mine, and I trace her lower lip with my tongue. She tastes like the meal and the wine we just shared, yet somehow both taste a whole lot better like this. And, when we pull apart, we’re both breathing heavily.
“I made dessert,” I tell her, our faces inches apart. “Flan. It’s my abuela’s recipe and I think?—”
“Or…” She cuts me off and stands, pressing herself against me. “We could skip dessert.”
