Page 13 of Fumbled Into Love

“I haven’t even seen your sheet, how am I supposed to know any of the answers?”

You can’t know the plays if you haven’t seen the playbook, though I have a feeling I may know more than I should.

“Consider this a baseline test.”

“You spend too much time with Maren if you’re using the words ‘baseline test.’”

“Regardless, we’ll each ask a question and guess the other's answer. If we're right,” Nathalie pauses, digging through her bag, “we get a pretzel. If we get it wrong, we have to do a push-up.”

“Those arethepretzels?”

The pretzels I dream about. I stumbled upon a stall at the farmers market handing out free samples of these seasoned pretzels. Turns out, they’re the best pretzels I’ve ever had. Buttery and salty and seasoned to perfection. I frequented the stall weekly until, one day, it disappeared.

It was one of the worst things to ever happen to me until Maren decided she was holding them hostage. I still haven’t worked up the nerve to text her back, and I’m nearly out of my stash.

Is sharing my secrets and potentially embarrassing myself worth some seasoned pretzels? She waves the bag in her grip, and the answer comes immediately: yes.

“How did you get those?” I stare longingly at the bag. I reach my hand out to grab one, and Nathalie slaps it away.

“Maren sent me the recipe. Now, remember the rules. Answer correctly, and you get a pretzel. Answer incorrectly, and you do a push-up.”

She has the recipe?!

If only she knew what power she holds as the owner of the recipe.

“I’m a professional athlete. A push-up isn’t a punishment.”

A foreign cockiness laces my words, and as Nathalie’s eyes roam along my body, a zap of electricity crackles along my skin. I shift in my seat to hide the response to her perusal. It’s an overwhelming, addicting feeling.

“Yes, well,” she chokes out, “I am not. A push-up is a punishment to me.” She glances at her blue clipboard. “What is my favorite color?”

There are the blue-framed glasses on her face, the clipboard she’s holding, and the sea-blue water bottle sitting on the table. This is a difficult one.

“It’s blue.”

Nathalie nods, and the smile on her face is vibrant. She extends the bag of pretzels, and I take one. The flavors melt on my tongue. They’re better than I remember.

“Ask me a question.”

I scan the page, looking through the questions for something easy and surface-level. “How do I take my coffee?”

“Cold brew with light ice.”

I nod, surprised she knows the answer.

The smirk on Nathalie's face is triumphant as she snatches a pretzel and pops it into her mouth. My eyes snag on her lips, and I force myself to focus on anything else.

“Who was my first kiss?”

“How am I supposed to know that?” I grumble, sliding off of the office chair to drop to the floor. I quickly do a push-up.

“You made that look so easy,” Nathalie’s voice quiets. “Please don’t ask me many hard questions. I can only do three on a good day.”

I chuckle, selecting an easy question.

“What was the mascot of the university I played at?”

Nathalie’s eyes bulge, and she bites her lip in concentration. Like a fool, my eyes drop to her lips again. I need to get a grip.

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