Page 112 of Changing the Playbook
“Get in the car,” I tell her. “Before I do something that’ll get us both expelled.”
“Promises, promises.”
She kisses me once more—quick but thorough—then slides into her car. As I watch her drive away, I realize everything feels sharper now, more real. The risk of it all terrifies me, but not enough to make me run.
Not from her. Never from her.
thirty-one
SOPHIE
Mike’s kitchenlooks like a crime scene.
Flour dusts every surface, tomato sauce spatters the backsplash in arterial spray patterns, and something that might have once been pizza dough has achieved sentience and is currently making a break for freedom over the edge of the counter.
“I think we used too much yeast.” Mike pokes the escaping dough blob with a wooden spoon, and it jiggles ominously.
“You think?” I scoop up a handful of the runaway dough, its texture glutinous and wrong. “This is what happens when you eyeball measurements.”
“Harsh.”
“Accurate.” I laugh, wrestling the dough back into submission. “And I quote: ‘A packet looks about right,’ and ‘trust the process.’”
“In my defense, I’ve never made dough, so it was another ‘first thing’ that went a little haywire.” He slides behind me, and suddenly every nerve ending in my back maps the exact contours of his chest through our flour-covered shirts. “And you’re distracting.”
His lips find that spot just below my ear that only he knows, the one that short-circuits my ability to form complete sentences. My knees go instantly liquid when Mike touches me like this. “How am I distracting? I’m literally just standing here.”
“And that proves it.” His hands settle on my hips. “Standing there all… tempting.”
“Tempting?” I turn in his arms, my flour-covered palms leaving perfect handprints on his shoulders. Evidence. Of what, I’m not sure. Maybe this thing between us that still feels too good to be real. “I’m covered in flour and smell like I bathed in garlic.”
“Mmm.” He nuzzles into my neck, and I make a sound that would be embarrassing if I cared about dignity anymore. “My favorite perfume.”
I whip the dish towel at him, but he catches it, using it to reel me closer. My protest dissolves as his body presses against mine, solid and warm and smelling like flour mixed with that deodorant that makes me want to bury my face in his chest and just breathe.
“You’re ridiculous,” I manage.
“You love it.” His grin is crooked.
“I loveyou.” The words still feel new on my tongue, precious and terrifying. It’s only been a week since I first said them, and part of me keeps waiting for the universe to realize its mistake and take this away. “Your ridiculousness is just something I tolerate.”
He kisses me then, slow and thorough, claiming every corner of my mouth with patient intensity. His tongue slides against mine and I taste the pepperoni he’s been “quality testing” since we started. At this rate, there won’t be any left for the actual pizza.
His hand tangles in my messy ponytail, thumb stroking the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck, and that sound escapes again, pure need wrapped in a whimper. God, the things thisman does to me, like making me calculate how sturdy his counter is.
“Mike,” I mumble, even as my hands slide under his shirt. “The sauce.”
His teeth graze my bottom lip. “What sauce?”
A violent hiss from the stove answers for me.
We spring apart. I lunge for the pot, cranking down the heat just as molten tomato begins its volcanic escape. The garlic smell intensifies to weapon-grade levels. My eyes water, and not delicate, single-tear water, but full-on, mascara-destroying, someone-call-hazmat water.
“Jesus.” I wave at the toxic cloud. “How much garlic did you put in this?”
“The recipe said four cloves.” He’s trying to look innocent. Failing spectacularly.
“Did you use four cloves or four bulbs?”
