Page 32 of Hiding from Hope

The memory tugs on my mind. “Wait, I remember that. You brought them over, and I polished off the whole container. They were delicious.”

“You remember that?” she asks, a bright smile on her face, but a gentle blush heats her cheeks.

“Of course. I remember all the things you made over the years.”

“No way,” she chuckles in disbelief. “I brought a container of food over like every weekend from the age of six.”

“I said I remembered everything you made. Not the food you mom made for you to bring us.” She seems stunned, and when I search her face, I see her big blue eyes blink rapidly, like she is trying to understand something. I leave her to her shock and turn to line up the ingredients from the bag. I wasn’t lying. Casey’s mom made most of the desserts she brought over, but every now and then, the treats were Casey’s, and they were always epically delicious. She has such a talent in the kitchen.

“Where is it?”

“Where is what?” She looks puzzled as she responds.

“The recipe book.” She looks at me over her shoulder, a mischievous smile slowly growing on her face. Leaning slightly toward me, she lifts a finger to her temple.

“It’s all in here, Jay.” I couldn’t stop myself if I tried. I stare at her lips as she bites down on them. We’re close now. Close enough that if she just pushed up on her toes and I leaned in slightly, I’d finally know if she tastes like the floral scent of her hair. Whether she makes a little moan as I swipe my tongue through those pretty pink lips. I’d finally be able to replace that fucking hickey with one of my own.

“Umm...” She swallows, clearing her throat, and I realize I’ve inched forward ever so slightly and we’re now sharing breath. Breath that is ragged, as her chest rises and falls at the pace of mine.

Fuck’s sake. I can’t be around this woman for more than five minutes without sporting a semi and wanting to be balls deep. I run a hand down my face and try to think of grandmas and sick dogs, trying to will away the lust-filled haze we seem to constantly find ourselves in.

“Let’s start then, shall we?” I say as I pull out a baking tray and a bowl.

She nods and then blinks rapidly, plastering on a fake smile as the song plays, and that weird universe thing happens where the words of the lyrics fit perfectly for this exact moment.

‘You walk through life just like a dancer, if I had my way, every day would be your parade, oh, I adore you.’

“Okay, we’ll pop them in the freezer for forty-five minutes and then the fun part happens.” She claps her hands, the same beaming smile plastered to her face as she closes the freezer.

“What’s the fun part?” I’ll be honest, I’ve never questioned Casey’s baking, but… there is potato in this dessert and I’m a little concerned.

She smacks my chest and then leans on the counter opposite me, crossing her arms against her chest. “You’re supposed to say the whole thing was fun.” I roll my eyes amusedly as I nod and pad over to the bookshelf.

“What, you didn’t have fun?” she asks, but her tone is teasing, a small chuckle lining her words.

“Yes, Ace, I had fun. Can’t wait for what’s next.” My words are low and sarcastic as I hunt amongst my stack of books, an absolute mess that it is.

“What on earth are you looking for, Jay?”

“I got you some— There it is.” I reach and grab the special edition that I had picked up earlier in the day.

“You got me something?” She sounds confused, like it is absurd that I, or anyone, for that matter, would think of her.

“I did.” I nod my head as I hand it to her. Her eyes bug out as her mouth opens in a delicate O and it warms my chest. “You like it?” I try not to sound nervous, try to hide the way my palms clam up in her silence, anticipating her response.

“Jessie.” She whispers my name as she gently swipes a hand over the white canvas hard back cover. The yellow and orange indented foiling under the lattice pattern and the cursive title that reads, Age of Innocence, flashing through the angles of the overhead lighting. “You… remembered?” I assume she means the day she searched my bookshelves and discovered my love for literary fiction. I noted her special attention to this title in particular. I shrug and scratch a palm at the back of my neck as I try to remain relaxed and calm and not like my heart is exploding out of my chest at her delight. I’ll buy them all if it means you smile at me like that.

“I saw a couple of re-bound canvas classics at your apartment. I knew they were yours, because there was no way they were Rosie’s with her dirty book obsession, or Addison’s with her aversion to reading classics. I remembered that day in my room, you had them all on the list to read. All of the ones you had were there, re-bound in different covers.” I shrug again. “I just thought you’d want to finish the collection. I didn’t see Age of Innocence amongst them, but I can have it swapped if you already have it.”

“It’s… it’s so beautiful, Jessie.” Her eyes have a soft sheen to them as they look up to me, wide, the blue of them dark in this corner of the apartment, like the deepest part of the ocean.

“I love it. I don’t have this one yet,” she replies. I give her a soft smile, and I can’t add anything else before she wraps herself around me tightly. I stop for a second before I close my arms around her and hold her to me. Allowing myself a moment to soak up her floral scent.

“Usually, I buy them, then re-bind them and shelve them after I have read them.” She pulls back, only enough to look up at me, her show-stopping smile in place, keeping her arms wrapped tightly around me. I soak her in, giving her my natural smile for what feels like the first time ever.

“I never pegged you for a classics reader. Or an arts-and-crafts person, either.” I chuckle.

“Of course, I am. Everyone needs hobbies, and I need something to channel all my pent-up sexual energy into.” Her smile drops as she registers the words that left her mouth, and she straightens awkwardly out of the embrace and keeping her gaze off mine as I try to ignore all the ways I’d help her burn through said sexual energy. “Besides, all the best heart-breaking and princess-worthy romance stories come from classics,” she continues, admiring the hardback, and I let her steer the conversation away from where I’d prefer to take it. “They always seem to find the perfect way to twist your heart, steal your breath, and make you believe in soulmates with just a few words.” I raise an eyebrow in disbelief at her as her gaze finds mine again, and she brings her hands to her chest–still clutching the book–to feign offense.

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