Page 67 of Book and Ladder
My fingers twitch with the urge to stake a claim on Patrick’s bicep. Possessive. Irrational. Preposterous. I don’t want him. But I certainly don’t want him falling for Vanessa’s indiscriminate wiles.
“Have you seen Blaire?” I ask Patrick, flattening my palm on my lap and ordering it to remain in place.
“Not since our date,” he says—punctuating his claim with a wink, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what kind of chaos he’s stirring.
The way he saysour datesounds like he and I were on a date. When I glance at Vanessa, she’s practically turning green.
“Enjoy the chili,” she says with a huff. And then she adds, “Try not to choke,” before she stomps off.
“Sorry to ruin your chances,” I mutter to Patrick.
“I owe you one,” he says, staring straight ahead instead of meeting my gaze.
More than one, I think to myself. I don’t have to say it. He knows.
The first cup of chili arrives in front of us. Cincinnati style—tastes like fall, nutmeg and cinnamon threading through the spice. I jot notes. The second cup, classic ground beef,hits hotter. I quickly pour and down half a glass of milk, gulp after gulp to quench the mild fire on my tongue.
“Can’t take the heat?” Patrick teases.
But then he grabs our shared carton and pours his own cup.
“Look who’s talking,” I jab back.
We both bypass the straws sitting next to us and tip our glasses to drain every drop.
I look over and Patrick’s sporting a milk moustache. It’s adorable. Unfortunately. I close my eyes, blotting out the reminder that the man who ruined my life is also the boy I once admired.
The next chili is a beef, bean and corn variety, milder than the last. The following one’s smokey and packs a good amount of heat. I’ve only taken two bites and I’m already grabbing for the milk, pouring a full glass and downing it in three swallows.
“Whew!” I say, not even caring if Patrick teases me.
I look over at him and his eyes are watering.
“Come on, Mister Tough Guy!” Declan bellows.
“Man up!” Shawn, another firefighter, piles on.
The redness crawling up Patrick’s neck? That’s not from the chili. That’s embarrassment—and I’m torn between wanting to defend him and loving watching him squirm.
“You can run into burning buildings but you’re melting over mildly spicy chili!” someone shouts.
We’re handed the final cup of chili. I lift the carton of milk to test how much is in there. It doesn’t seem like a lot. They saved the spiciest for last. I know a Texas-style chili con carne when I smell it, not to mention when that first bite hits my tongue. The heat rushes through my mouth, down my throat and straight out my eye sockets.
Next to me, Patrick’s in tears, hiccuping and grabbing for the milk carton.
Awww nah. He’s not taking the last of the milk. Not when I have a five-alarm fire burning through the upper half of my body!
Patrick’s trying to save face. I’m trying to save my own life.
I need milk—now!
I reach for the carton at the same time Patrick does. Of course. Typical O’Connell—always overstepping, competing—winning. Our hands collide. The carton wobbles. Straws shoot in ten directions like coiled plastic snakes out of a gag gift.
The chili must have given me superpowers. I snatch the carton from Patrick’s reach and drain the rest of the milk into my cup before Patrick has a chance to get a drop for himself.
Patrick’s hand closes over mine. He jams his straw into my cup. I snatch up a wayward straw, keeping a death grip on the cup of milk. Patrick leans so close his breath fans across my cheeks—a shudder runs straight through me. His eyes lock on mine and he mutters, “Fine,Lady and the Trampit is.” Then he hiccups.
I tug the cup toward myself, but he’s gripping it for dear life. I can’t back down. Both our heads move toward the center.
