Page 75 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“Mm-hmm.”
“But even if I did…” He inhales a shaky breath. “I’d probably be better off walking home,” he says bitterly before drinking the rest of his Pellegrino. “Ah well. ‘Present mirth hath present laughter.’”
He had to quote the play. I’m sitting in his lap with his arms around me, and he had to quote the darn play. He probably has a marked-up copy somewhere, annotated with all kinds of clever, sexy insights. Just like his volume of sonnets. Just like every last book in his bedroom.
I can hardly breathe. “Close your eyes,” I say softly.
He does immediately.
I gently take his face in my hands and slowly kiss each of his eyelids. And while Mike stays very still, I can feel him melting underneath me. I lean in to brush a kiss against his lips, but I stop. I want this…but not like this. I want to be me when I kiss him. I want it to be for real, not a game because I’m in cosplay or part of some impromptu play for someone else’s benefit. I pull back.
Mike’s chin dips. His eyes are open, and I can feel his grip on my waist easing, but he doesn’t look up.
I leave without saying goodbye. I walk out of the crowded bar without turning around.
The night air feels like a gentle hug, even if the nightlife in PB is rowdy. I’m a few paces down the street when I hear the door of the pub swing open, and I see Mike, who for a minute looks at me like I’m not just a winning lottery ticket, but the sunset over a calm ocean. I watch, expecting him to stumble or shrug out of character with a laugh, but he just stands there, staring at me.
I turn and walk off into the night. It’s only when I’m in my car, driving home, that I remember the first part of the couplet fromTwelfth Night.
What is love? ’Tis not hereafter.
Chapter 24
I give myself a week filled with lots of dog walking before I make up my mind about what happened at the pub. Something changed, and Mike and I had a moment. It could have been a trick of the long, hot cosplay night, but I don’t think so.
When I wake up Saturday morning, I am sure of two things. The first: I want a cookie. As delicious as the bakery two blocks up is, I know for a fact there are better cookies to be had in this little corner of La Jolla. The second: I want to see Mike. I don’t regret not kissing him. I don’t regret flirting with him. I certainly don’t regret the cosplay. In fact, I plan to text Adam later today to see if I can pick up another shift.
But, my gosh, do I miss the sight of Mike Benedick.
Mike’s Dutch door is open—well, the top half, anyway. So I unlock the bottom half and let myself in. He’s on the floor with a nail gun, playing with the baseboards.
“I want a cookie.”
“Of course you do.” He punches another couple of nails in.
I hop onto his pretty new quartz countertop. “The ones you had in the cookie jar. Tell me where they’re from.”
“Must I?”
“Yes, you owe me for last Saturday. And I’ve decided I want cookies as payback.”
He rises and pushes a series of buttons on his new range. They beep haughtily before a fan kicks on. “And no doubt a meal to go with them.” He pads over to the pantry and pulls out flour, sugar, and glass jars of spices.
“No,” I say indignantly. “Cookies are my meal.”
Mike shakes his head at me, but there’s a playful smile on his lips. He hauls open the refrigerator door and momentarily disappears behind it. “Cookies do not a meal make.” He emerges with butter, eggs, and a jar of molasses.
“They do if you eat enough of them.”
His eyes narrow. “What did they do to you in law school? Lock you in a room with only Oreos for days at a time?”
“And sugar packets.” I gaze unapologetically at the sliver of skin just above his waistband as he reaches for something in the cupboard above the fridge. “Old habits die hard.”
“Which is why you can’t stop arguing or thinking like a lawyer.” He opens the tin he’s retrieved and counts out twelve pieces of what look like some sort of gumdrop candy. “Hand me the chef’s knife.”
“I can’t. I’m too hungry. I need cookies.” And I don’t have it in me to suffer through any more failed home-baking attempts. Adam has scarred me for life. “Look, if the bakery is closed onweekends or something, that’s fine. Just tell me. I’ll drag you there during opening hours.”
He sifts sugar and flour into a bowl. “You don’t know which is the chef’s knife, do you?”
