Page 66 of Boyfriend
"You perv."
He grins. "How about I help you with this cake? Then I can perv out later."
"Don't you have a game you're supposed to be watching?"
Even as I say these words, a loud chorus of groans erupts in the living room. And one lonely cheer.
“You hear that?” Weston points over his shoulder with his thumb. “I think I can follow the game from here. The Bruins just got scored on.”
“Someone was happy,” I point out as I unpack butter, sugar, and flour from my bag.
“One of the freshmen is a Rangers fan.” Weston makes a face.
“And you allow that?”
“We tolerate it. Nobody’s perfect.”
You are. Ugh. It’s inconvenient how much I like Weston. I know we’re just a temporary thing. But I am going to miss him fiercely when I move away. “Will you preheat the oven to 350?”
“Sure.” But he doesn’t do it. Instead, he moves to stand behind me. Then he lifts my hair and kisses my neck.
My body flashes hot, and goose bumps rise up on my arms. He kisses me again, his lips soft and yet insistent. “Westie, don’t take this as a criticism. But it's hard to make cake when you're so distracting.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Okay. Put me to work. Keep my hands busy, or I’m going to have to find other uses for them.”
“Right. First the oven, and then…” I pull a printed copy of my mother’s recipe out of my coat pocket. “Can you measure out three cups of pecans? We have to chop them and then fry them in butter.”
“You got it,” he says.
The living room lets out a sudden cheer.
“Ooh, score!” Weston says, pulling open the bag of pecans. “Let’s do this.”
Twenty-Three
This Might Take a While
Weston
I’ve lived in this house for a year and a half, but I’ve never baked a cake in this kitchen. That seems like a mistake now, because the house smells amazing. And it’s surprisingly fun assisting Abbi with her mixing and scraping.
Once the cake is in the oven, and the timer is set, I have an easier time stealing kisses. I push Abbi up against the counter and take her mouth with the same furor that I usually save for stealing the puck.
Abbi melts against my body. Her mouth softens under mine, and her arms wrap around my neck.
I’m just wondering whether there’s enough time to drag her upstairs for a quickie before the oven timer dings, when she pushes me away with gentle hands. “Westie, I have to make the frosting. Caramelization takes some time. Do you have a skillet?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, because it’s more polite than ripping her clothes off. Then I find the woman a skillet.
Abbi melts another stick of butter in the pan and then tosses the pecans in. She stirs them continuously and takes frequent sniffs of the pan.
“What is that for?” I ask.
“My mom’s instructions say to cook it until it smells ‘caramelly,’ and then start adding the powdered sugar. This might take a while.”
“Want a drink? There are beers in the fridge.”
“Sure,” she says brightly. “Thanks.”
