Another little sits down at the table across from me, reads down the ingredients, and starts measuring the warm water into the flour. When she picks up a tablespoon instead of a teaspoon to measure the salt, I gently reach out and correct her.
“Oops, it’s this one. You wouldn’t want super-salty pizza.”
She glances up. Dark eyes, such dark eyes. Cute nose. Laugh lines around her mouth that tell me she’s not as young as her pink bunny ears, blue and purple hair, and floral dress suggest.
“Thank you,” she says.
And then she smiles.
My chest clenches so tight, I can’t breathe. I’ve run half-marathons and not been this winded.
She measures out the salt, tips it into the bowl, and dips her small hands in to mix without concern for getting floury. Then she looks up, a hint of panic widening those dark, almond-shaped eyes. “I forgot the olive oil.”
She lifts floury fingers above the edge of the bowl.
There’s no awkward gap.
“Here, let me help you.” I measure out the olive oil and reach across the table to tip it into her bowl.
She grins and my heart stops again. “Thank you twice.”
“You’re welcome.”
“My name’s Cynnie,” she says. “Is this your first time coming to playgroup with Mary Lisa?”
Cynnie. One of the littles Emily wanted me to meet. Now I know why. Fuck, why did I fight this for a single second? I want to devour her and all she’s done is thanked me, twice.
“I’m not, uh, with Mary Lisa.” Now I’m fumbling. “I came with Logan and Emily.”
Her eyes widen again. “Are you Emily’s friend Max?”
“I am.” Ordinarily, I’d be furious with Emily for talking about me but I’m so pathetically grateful in this moment that I startthinking of whether I should send her pink roses the way Logan does or purple like Cynnie’s hair.
“Nice to meet you, Max. I’m Cynnie.”
She said that. She realizes it after a moment, too, and blushes.
My heart really does stop.
She looks like a golden rose with the color in her cheeks. I want to touch her skin so badly, feel with my fingertips whether her cheeks are as heated as they look, as soft and warm as a rose in the sun. I plunge my hands in to the dough to keep from reaching to her.
She lowers her eyes to the bowl and her lower lip trembles. Is she embarrassed? Over such a tiny slip? She should hear some of my conversational gaffes.
“It’s nice to meet you, Cynnie,” I say gently. “What kind of pizza are you making?”
“Cinnamon,” she murmurs in a tiny voice.
Cinnamon pizza sounds disgusting; I will eat cinnamon pizza all day if it makes her smile.
“Cinnamon is my favorite,” I tell her. “Do you like it with pepperoni?”
She giggles.
I’m going to need a defibrillator in a minute here. I pull at the collar of my shirt, realizing too late that I have flour all over my hands. The white handprint on my black T-shirt makes her giggle again.
“Oh, no. Let me wipe that off for you,” Mary Lisa says and starts patting at my shirt.
I’m tempted to bark at her. That’s the second time she’s touched me. I haven’t invited either time, and I’m getting unhappy about it.
