Page 62 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

The simple sincerity in his voice catches me off guard, silencing my retort. For a moment, we just look at each other, the playful argument fading into something deeper.

"What do you want to do?" he asks suddenly. And I can think of a dozen things I want to do to him. First, I would take his shirt off and then I would… "After college, I mean."

Suddenly, I have to remember what I'm doing after college. I take a sip to waste some time, trying to gather my thoughts away from slipping off my shirt to show him what I really want to do.

The shift in topic is jarring but welcome. "Marketing for a non-profit, ideally. Something where I feel like I'm contributing more than just making some corporation richer." I hesitate, not used to sharing these aspirations. "Sounds cheesy, I know."

"Not at all." He looks genuinely interested. "Which kind of non-profit?"

"Environmental, maybe? Or education?" I shrug. "Still figuring that part out. What about you? Let me guess — Fortune 500 company, corner office, using your good looks and arrogant attitude to ruthlessly climb the corporate ladder?"

He winces slightly, his eyes narrow slightly. "Is that what you think of me?"

"Kind of your whole vibe," I tease. "The ambitious business major who's going to take over the world."

"Not totally wrong," he admits. "But I've been thinking lately about starting something of my own. A company with different values."

That surprises me. An entrepreneurial endeavor. "Like what?"

"One that treats people well. Sustainable practices. Giving back to communities." He looks almost embarrassed by the admission. "Sandy's always been the family humanitarian. I was the capitalist robot."

"Was?" I prompt.

"Am evolving," he corrects with a small smile. "Let's just say recent experiences have made me reconsider some priorities."

The statement hangs between us, but I won't acknowledge it directly. Instead, I ask, "What kind of business?"

For the next twenty minutes, he outlines his ideas — a tech company focused on environmental applications, ways to make sustainability profitable, visions that reveal a depth of thought I never associated with the Cade I thought I knew.

As our plates empty and conversation flows, I realize how rarely Byron and I had talks like this — about dreams, aspirations, the future as something to build rather than just arrive at. The comparison makes me uncomfortable, so I push it away, focusing instead on the man across from me.

"Dessert?" Cade asks as we reach a natural pause.

"I couldn't eat another bite," I admit. "But I make an excellent dishwasher assistant."

"Okay." He stands, gathering our plates. "I wash, you dry?"

In the small kitchen, we establish a rhythm — Cade rinsing dishes before placing them in the soapy water, me drying each one and finding its proper place. The domestic simplicity of the task feels unexpectedly intimate.

"You missed a spot," I point out, bumping his hip with mine to move him aside.

"Did not," he protests, flicking soap bubbles in my direction.

"Very mature." I reach around him for the next plate, our bodies brushing against each other in the confined space.

He catches my hand, turning me to face him. Water drips from his fingers onto my wrist as he pulls me closer. "Have I told you how incredible you look tonight?"

"Only twice," I murmur, heat rising to my cheeks despite myself. "Going for a third, Connolly?"

Instead of answering, he leans down, lips meeting mine in a kiss that tastes of wine. My hands find his shoulders, dish towel still clutched in one fist as I press against him.

"We're never going to finish these dishes, are we?" he asks against my mouth.

"Probably not," I agree, stealing another kiss before reluctantly pulling away. "But we should try."

We return to our tasks, though now every movement feels charged with anticipation. He passes me a glass, our fingers lingering as they touch. I reach past him for the dish soap, deliberately letting my body brush against his. The simple chore becomes a dance of near-touches and knowing glances.

"Last one," he announces finally, handing me a serving spoon.

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