Page 18 of Not Your Valentine
“I didn’t say ‘only.’ I said that’s what they specialized in.”
“Whatever. You made it up because you knew I’d hate it, then tried to convince me to go there by telling me about their decadent chocolate cakes?”
He responds with a shrug.
I can’t believe I fell for that. I should have known. Taylor isn’t a huge jokester, but he does pull shit like this on occasion.
I mean, I get it. I’m a fun person to annoy. An easy person to annoy.
But now I’m craving chocolate cake and I can’t have any.
“You want to be pushed into a trash can again?” I ask.
“I’ll be serious now.” He stops on the sidewalk. “How about we go to the Japanese cheesecake place you like?”
“If I have to…” I make an effort to sound even more put-out than usual.
“I’m sorry for initiating your chocolate cravings. There’s a patisserie near here, but it’s probably closed—”
“No, I’m quite happy with Japanese cheesecake.”
We start walking.
“By the way,” he says, “what sort of, uh, physical affection would you like to do in public as part of our act? Was it okay that I squeezed your hand when we saw your auntie?”
“Yeah, yeah. We can…touch.”
“If it’s distasteful to you—”
“It’s not.” That wasn’t the reason for my hesitation. No, for some reason, my brain was conjuring up other ways in which we could touch, such as his fingers sliding up my wrist or stroking my hair. I’m not sure why.
“Good to know.”
The small cheesecake shop is crowded. We snag the last table, and Taylor holds our seat while I go up to order.
I don’t particularly like what some people would consider “normal” cheesecake, but I’m a fan of the light cheesecake here. I order the basic one, not the strawberry or matcha. It’s twelve bucks, and it’s a decent size. More than enough for two people who have just eaten a large dinner.
Taylor is sitting on the bench along the wall, but when I sit on the chair across from him, he taps the space beside him.
Right. We’re on a “date” and we need to take pictures together at some point.
I hang my parka on the back of the chair, then take a seat beside him, leg pressing against his. Okay, this is a little weird, but I can handle it. I lean closer and snap a selfie. I’m not much of a selfie person—in fact, I’m not a selfie person at all—but sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do.
“Helen, Helen,” Taylor says in a tone of affectionate exasperation. “You don’t look like you’re in love with me.” He pauses. “Not that you need to be in love if we’ve only been together for a short time, but you should look like you’re fond of me, rather than pissed about taking a selfie. Maybe try kissing me on the cheek.”
I glare at him. “Kissing for the camera? That would be suspicious. I don’t want people to think I’ve been kidnapped.”
“Hmm. Good point. But try to look just a little happier.”
We take a few pictures with his arm around me, our cheeks practically smushed together, and manage one that isn’t completely terrible. Taylor looks fine in all of them; it’s me who’s always had trouble smiling for pictures, even when said pictures are self-inflicted.
I post the photo on Instagram. Taylor replies with an excessive number of heart emojis (i.e., one) before he starts eating the cheesecake.
We’ve scarfed down almost half of it before I realize that my leg is still pressed against his and I never went back to sitting on the other side of the table.
Just doing a good job of playing the part, I suppose.
Chapter 7
