Page 77 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“I’ll lick your fingers clean.” Delivered with such a brazenly casual tone.
I try to will my face not to turn red.
“Or,” he says, “there is the kitchen sink. I got it hooked up last night.”
“Moving up in the world.” I dump the very fragrant and sticky ginger into his bowl before running my hands pointedly under the faucet.
“Guess I won’t be licking you anytime soon.”
Heat all over my face.
“See? You like villains.”
“What?” I pull open the fridge, hoping the cool air will do something about the blush on my cheeks.
“You like the characters who say and do things they shouldn’t.”
I pull out his bottle of cranberry juice and help myself to a couple of blackberries. “That’s not the definition of a villain.”
“Then what is?”
“You’re not a bad guy, Mike.” But he is able to play them so, so well. Slip them on like they are a tailor-made suit. Why is that?
I pop the berries into my mouth and hold the bottle out for him to open. He sighs but twists off the cap before setting it on the counter.
I reach for a glass in his cupboard, but he takes my hand and pulls me gently away from the sink. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“Villains are ruthless, selfish—”
His eyes narrow before a grin spreads across his face. “You missed some ginger here by your ring.” He brushes my fingers against his lips, pausing at the offending knuckle, which he licks, sucks, and…kisses. “You should take it off next time you’re baking.”
“Right,” I say, not proud of how breathless I sound.
“It’s pretty.” He backs away and runs a single hand through his hair. “A souvenir from a buddy in law school?”
Would he be jealous if I said yes? “A present from my grandma when I started high school, actually. She said we never celebratethe starts of things, but beginnings are just as important as endings.” I twist the morganite ring around so the stone faces my palm. “I used to wear it on my right hand, but then I grew a couple of inches and ring sizes after high school, and I haven’t bothered to get it resized. So I wear it on my left.”
“Like a wedding ring.”
I pour myself a glass of cranberry juice. “Keeps the villains at bay.”
“Piques their interest,” he grumbles, dropping a small ball of cookie dough into a bowl of sugar. “You gonna help?”
I groan. “If I must.”
“Roll them in the sugar, then put them on the sheet.”
I know better than to complain about getting sticky hands. “Where did you learn to bake?”
“Your granny gave you fine jewelry. Mine taught me how to bake and read.”
That’s adorable. “Really? Dick and Jane at the seashore?”
Mike laughs. “I mean read literature. I was in sixth grade, and I had just landed the first F of my academic career. I used to walk here after school every day. I came through that door, tore my English essay in half, stuffed it into the trash, and stormed off.”
“Without even stopping for a piece of licorice?” I take a sip of my juice.
“No, I made sure to grab one of those.” Mike scoops out more perfectly sized balls of dough. “Grandma found me. She had the two halves of my essay in one hand and her collection of Edgar Allan Poe short stories in the other.”
