Page 70 of Between Love and War
I stop because Michael is smiling now. A full, stupidly charming smile that makes me feel all sorts of new emotions I’m not ready to even address yet. He looks down at his shoes. Then the cookie cake. Then he locks eyes with me. He’s still smiling. A very real looking one, too.
“I love cookie cakes.” He approaches me and takes the box off my hands. “So, if you’re leaving, please leave this. Because this is better than all that,” he says, pointing to four giant cakes behind him.
He slowly sets the cookie cake on the table. Then he turns back to me, rubbing the back of his neck as if considering something, before meeting my eyes again.
“Or, you know,” he says, voice a little softer now, “you could just… stay.”
The way he says it makes my heart do a cartwheel. It’s soft like a whisper, and I could almost hear a pleading tone. Though, of course, it could well be my delusion.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
He steps aside, just a little, like he’s clearing a path I didn’t ask for.
“Just for a bit,” he adds, almost like he’s afraid to say more. “If you’re not busy. And if you’re not planning to, you know, break into any other houses tonight.”
He smiles again. Not that infuriatingly smug smile I’m used to. This one’s more sincere. And despite all the voices in my head stopping me, I do, in fact, stay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Michael
As a ‘famous’ person, I get lots of gifts and cakes on my birthday. Usually, it’s wrapped in extravagance and unbelievable luxury.
I’m talking designer watches I don’t remember endorsing, shoes too white to wear outdoors, gadgets I don’t know how to turn on, and twenty-two cakes—yes, twenty-two—each more over-the-top than the last. One came in a cooler packed with dry ice. Another played the ‘Happy Birthday’ song when you opened the lid. And I wasn’t planning on bringing any of them here. I was planning to leave it all to the staff at the agency.
But I figured I’d take a few—four of the flashiest—to share with the neighbors. Maybe throw together a little feast. Order some food, beer, folding chairs in the backyard.
And then Kate walked in.
Or, well—she was trying to sneak out.
But she was holding something she personally made for me. Because she considered what I liked. And in that moment, I thought… everyone else can wait.
Now she’s sitting on my couch, curled into herself. She’s watching TV set to low volume—some nature documentary about jellyfish, I think—but I can tell she’s not really listening. Her eyes are somewhere else. Her mind is probably even farther.
I head to the kitchen and rummage through my mostly unused utensil drawer, and take two forks. I grab the cookie cake she tried to ‘un-give’ me and walk over.
“You know,” I say, settling into the opposite side of the couch, “out of all twenty-two cakes I got today, this is the best one.”
She blinks, looking up. “You haven’t even tasted it yet. It’s a little lumpy, since my mixer’s already seven years old. You share a birthday, by the way.”
“Happy birthday to your mixer. But I have devoured the cookies you bake every single day since I got here.” I look at her, deadpan. “Which reminds me,” I say, standing up, “we need milk.”
Kate chuckles.
When I return with the milk, we start eating in small bites. It’s good. Really good, actually. A little crispy on the edge, warm in the middle. Just the right amount of salt to bring out the sweetness.
“Thank you,” I say. “Really, Katie, it means a lot to me.”
She sets her fork down. “You don’t have to pretend it’s a big deal.”
“I’m not pretending,” I say, watching her carefully. “You made something with your hands. You thought about what I might like. That’s rare for me.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You got a cake with your face on it, Michael. And one that’s a full basketball court. How is this rare?”
I shrug, leaning back. “Because those are corporate. Branded. Someone’s assistant checked my name off a list. I only got those because I’m good at putting a ball through a hoop.”
Kate rolls her eyes, but I can see she’s listening.
