Page 17 of Ablaze

“I feel like we’ll end up binging this like we did The Bachelor.”

I shake my head, taking a seat next to him and giving him an appalled look. He is both a terrible liar and a chronic subject-changer. “You’re never allowed back inside my bakery. I’m reporting you for theft.”

He pops a cookie into his mouth. “Or you could make a dozen of these just for me. Turns out, they’re really good for my digestion, too. Really loosens stuff up in here.” He rubs his washboard abs.

I wrinkle my nose, scooting so my back presses against the armrest and pull the rounded neck of my sweatshirt a little higher. I’m wearing it over my signature black shorts. No matter the weather, I like my legs bare and my torso covered.

I tuck my feet under his thighs, taking a sip of my tea, and holding back my giggle from the memory of him telling me my body was a fusion of microclimates.

“Seriously, Mala. You’re the only one I know who wears fucking sweatshirts and shorts in the middle of sweltering heat and bone-chilling frost, and who has cold fingers and toes all year long. You’ve got problems.”

“Yeah, I do have problems,” I’d responded. “You.”

He’d slow-clapped, his sarcasm at a level ten. “Wow. That was a good one. Buuurn.”

My fingers and toes are always ice cold, an affliction I’ve had ever since I can remember.

My dad used to warm my toes between his palms when he tucked me into bed because I refused to wear socks to sleep. My feet would get too hot, too ‘suffocated’ in socks, so Dad would massage them before kissing me good night.

I don’t know when I got comfortable enough to tuck my feet under Dean’s thighs–perhaps the first time he came over, and we watched TV alone together a few months ago. And though neither of us have acknowledged it, nor have we verbalized the rules, Dean and I always keep a safe distance from each other around Rohan.

Not like we’re crossing any lines or doing anything illicit now. Not like we’re secretly holding hands or making out or . . .

It’s just feet . . . under thighs. Really toned, well-sculpted, heavy thighs that fill out jeans, or his current getup, gray sweatpants.

My eyes travel from his enormous thighs–covering most of my feet–down his long legs, splayed out in front of him. He flexes his feet and my eyes quickly dart back up his legs to follow the stretch of his navy-colored Henley over his abs, up to the smooth skin of his neck, right under the soft shadow of his scruff. His hair is up in a half-bun today.

I follow the bob of his Adam’s apple and my eyes snap to his when he says my nickname. “Sprinkles. You good with this dating show?”

I nod, turning to the TV and hoping that the sounds of strangers on the show ambushes the stray thoughts that shouldn’t have a place in my head at all.

He’s my friend . . . my brother’s best friend.

He’s also a super likable and easygoing guy. And that’s the only reason these stray thoughts are even bouncing around in my head in the first place.

Nothing more, nothing less.

No need to overthink it, Mala.

Even a nun would have these thoughts about him.

Okay, so maybe not a nun, because some of these thoughts are indecent and uncouth and . . .

“She’s an idiot,” Dean declares, making me jolt back to the present. Thankfully, my tea doesn’t slosh over the rim. He points at the TV. “Can you believe she chose that idiot?”

I shake my head, realizing I missed most of the show. “Unbelievable. How could she?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” He turns to me. “Hey, did that shit turn my teeth purple?”

He flashes his teeth and I make a horrified face, leaning forward abruptly to get a closer look. “Oh, Jesus. Okay, Dean . . .” I say with an exaggerated wince, “just, don’t freak out, okay?”

His eyes narrow on me, but I can see both doubt and fear intermingling beautifully in his blue irises. He pauses our show. “You better not be fucking with me, sprinkles. What is it? Tell me the truth. Did that shit really turn my teeth purple?”

I place my hand over my mouth. “Look, I’m sure some whitening toothpaste will–”

Dean launches himself off the couch, rushing to my bathroom. “Jesus Christ, woman! What kind of shit do you keep in your house? Why can’t you just have normal stuff like the rest of us?”

I face-plant on my couch cushion, my shoulders shaking with laughter as I hear him grumble and curse before turning on the bathroom lights. I don’t have to see him to know he’s gotten up-close-and-personal with the mirror, examining his teeth like they’re under a microscope.

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