Page 47 of Fake Game

“Bye.”

I toss my phone onto the marble counter and pop an espresso pod into the machine. I can feel Deer’s eyes on me, tracking my every movement.

The fuck am I supposed to say to her?

“Whatcha making?”

“Pancakes.”

She hums in approval. “Can you make mine with strawberries?”

I glance at her over my shoulder. “It doesn’t mix in well with the soufflé mixture.”

“Really?” She gives a dramatic pout, drawing my attention to her lower lip. “That sucks.”

I can think of something I want her to suck.

Fuck.

No.

I drag my eyes away and turn my head back so she doesn’t fill my vision anymore.

This is not cool.

I reach into the fridge and grab the small carton of strawberry milk I bought yesterday, opening and pouring it into a glass mug before dumping the fresh espresso in. I take a metal straw to swirl everything together and then slide the glass across the island to Deer, avoiding any direct eye contact.

“Here.”

She blinks at the glass for a second before taking it between her hands. “How’d you know I liked my coffee like this?”

I shrug, turning back to pop a new pod into the coffee machine. “You posted about it.”

She chuckles something that sounds a lot like the word “fanboy” under her breath. I’m tempted to look at her, to see what expression she is wearing, but I stop myself. I’m digging myself into a hole, and I need to stop before it becomes too deep and I can’t escape.

The sound of the metal straw clinking around the glass echoes into the silence, and I throw my focus into the pancakes, making sure they are perfect, bouncy circles.

Bouncy, like her—

God-fucking-dammit.

“Tastes good.”

The corner of my mouth ticks up at her approval.

I flip the first pancake—arguably, always the worst one—onto a plate and set it aside for myself before starting on the second one. While it cooks, I grab some raspberries out of the fridge and drop them in a saucer with some sugar and lemon juice. The second pancake looks perfect, so I plop it onto a new plate and drizzle the raspberry coulee on top with a spray of whipped cream.

I slide the dish over to Deer, who shoots her hand out to curl around mine before I have a chance to let go. Her soft skin teases against my own, and it forces my gaze to meet hers.

“Stop. This is for me?” There’s a tone of incredulity that matches the wide saucer look of her eyes.

“We don’t have strawberries.”

“I—” Her gaze softens. “Thank you. It looks pretty.”

She releases my hand and picks up her fork and knife, but I remain glued in my position as I watch her cut a small triangle and pop it in her mouth. Deer squeezes her eyes and lets outa small moan, curling her hand under her chin. “Oh my Gods, that’s amazing.” She quickly cuts another piece and moans in pleasure as she chews on it.

I hate everything.

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