Page 67 of My Rules

“I did notice that,” Henley whispers back, and we all laugh.

This is such a happy day.

The best.

The waitress carries out a huge tray of cupcakes and puts them down on the table. “Oh.” From across the room, my eyes widen in excitement, and I drag Blake over toward the table. “Let’s go get some.”

There must be fifty cupcakes laid out in the shape of a giant heart. “Look how pretty.” I smile as I look over the choices. “Take a photo of this for me.”

Blake takes out his phone and snaps a photo. “Hold a cupcake up,” he instructs me.

I pick up a cupcake. “They’re still hot,” I gush. “And the icing is oozing.” I take a big bite. “Oh ...” I go cross-eyed in pleasure. “You have to have one of these. The icing is lemon.”

“You all right there?” Blake frowns as he looks at the ground.

I glance down to see the hot icing has drizzled down my shin and all over my foot. I giggle. “Eww.”

“Hold that thought.” Blake gets down on his knee and begins to snap photos of my foot in my strappy stiletto.

“What are you doing?” I glance at the people surrounding us. “You look like a weirdo.”

“Yeah, well, you look like you’ve got come all over your foot, and if it’s turning me on, imagine what those sick fuckers would do.”

“What?” I whisper.

Blake stands and grabs my hand and drags me outside. “Sit down and take your shoe off. I’m going to video it.”

“Huh?” I frown in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Just fucking do it.”

I sit down on the edge of the garden. “Don’t get my face in this.”

“I’m not.” He begins to video and puts his finger up to his lips for me to be quiet.

I slowly untie the strap and slide my foot out of my shoe. The white icing is now dripping between my toes.

He stops filming for a second. “Now, swipe your finger through it, and bring it up to your mouth,” Blake says.

“What?” I whisper as I look around guiltily. “I don’t want my face in anything.”

“I’ll edit it out; just do it.” He holds the camera up and then drops it again as he has another thought. “Don’t put your finger in your mouth; smear it across your lips instead.”

“What?”

“Just fucking do it,” he whispers.

I do as he tells me, and he smiles and holds his thumb up. “Do it again.”

I do it again.

“Now, smear your fingers through the icing on your foot, and then rub it into your toes.”

“You’re perverted, you know that?”

“I do know that.” He keeps filming, and after a good ten minutes, he says, “Okay, I think I’ve got it.” He scrolls back through his photos and smiles. “This is hot.”

“How is this hot?” I frown as I lean over his shoulder to look at the photos.

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