Page 82 of Pucked Up Plans
She leans in, waiting for something. A kiss, most likely. So I incline my head, meeting her halfway. “Friday,” she rasps. “Everything has to wait until Friday.” Not only does she move her head away, she hops off my lap, putting over six feet of distance between us.
“You’re killing me, Smalls.” A low groan accompanies my words.
“Slowish,” she reminds. It taunts me more.
I jump up off the couch. “I should go.” It’s the last thing I want to do, but if I don’t, I don’t trust what I might do. If I tip her to the brink, she’s likely to pull back everything we’ve agreed to. I can wait a few more days to have her to myself rather than lose any of this.
“You didn’t finish cleaning up the kitchen.” Her straitlaced tone halts my actions.
“You said you’d do it.”
“That was before you talked me into taking this leap with you. Now, get back in there and clean up. You got your batch of cookies, with some extras for you. You should hold up your end of the bargain.” She jabs her hand behind her.
Like a scolded puppy, I make my way to the kitchen, followed by Tate. Just great. Now she’ll probably critique how I load thedishwasher and clean up. Not in the mood for that, I load it the way she likes.
When she doesn’t sit down, I inquire about her intentions. “What are you doing?”
“Helping. This mess isn’t from your one batch of cookies. You want some tea or coffee?”
The timing of her question rattles me. Because it’s late and consuming caffeine probably isn’t the best idea. But that doesn’t stop me. “Co-coffee, please. And a cookie. Or three,” I mumble under my breath.
She wastes little time making a pot of coffee. For a solid three minutes, I’m mesmerized by how she moves around the small space. Sure, it’s just coffee, but she’s so comfortable with what she’s doing. She eyeballs the amount of grinds and water. The few times I’ve attempted to make coffee, I had to measure it meticulously. And then remeasure.
“Keeley, this kitchen won’t clean itself.”
“Fuck. You know what using that nickname does to me.”
“Why do you think I do it?”
I can’t let it get to me. Not in any way. It would surely be my undoing.
Death by use of nickname.
Not until after Friday.
We clean for about twenty minutes, side by side, working together as a team. It’s stupid, mundane, and domesticated, but there’s something comforting about doing it with Tate. It doesn’t feel like a chore, just two people getting familiar with each other while making sure the mess gets cleaned up.
When the coffee’s ready, she pours two mugs. “I’ve got almond or regular milk, sugar, and coconut creamer. How can I doctor yours up?”
“You can’t. I prefer it black.”
Her nose scrunches in disgust. “Ew. Gross. Remind me never to drink from your cup.” Her words surprise even her but shift something inside me. If we’re fortunate enough to get to that stage of a relationship, I’ll be happy to forgo my tastes for hers.
Maybe.
On second thought, I’ll reassess in the future.
She adds a splash of coconut creamer to her mug, then stirs it.
The oddest sensation sprouts inside me: a small part wanting to taste hers. But we’re not there yet. Instead, I blow on mine and sip it before reaching for my bag of cookies.
Her hand on mine stops me. A spark ignites at the connection. Or rather, the inferno burns stronger.
“Save those for tomorrow. I’ve got extras.” Sliding out of her seat, she grabs a container from the counter and hands it to me. The entire thing.
“Aren’t you afraid I may eat all your extras?”
From her spot across the table, her eyes blink. Like she doesn’t comprehend what I’m asking.
