Page 77 of Frosting and Flames

He at least takes his clean laundry off the couch and puts it in his room before settling in to play his farming simulator video game for the rest of his break. Little does he know his bedroom will once again become the receptacle for all the…extrathings in this house once he leaves. I don’t have time to actually figure out where it all goes.

What I need to focus on is dinner. When I’d texted Rachel asking for a makeup date, I’d promised to make her something at my house. Why I did that, I have no idea, but it seemed romantic at the time.

The hours go by quickly, and before I know it, I’m lighting the candles on the dining room table. The flames flicker gently, and I set out the plates with more care than I’ve ever put into anything domestic before. The scent of garlic and roasted chicken lingers in the air, and I’m just thankful I didn’t burn it, convinced I was going to ruin it all.

Rachel will be here any minute, and my stomach dances with something that’s not quite nerves, but close to it. This isn’t simply dinner. This will set the tone for our entire relationship.

Or what I hope will be a relationship.

A car pulls up outside, and I run a hand over my shirt, smoothing it down, then rake my fingers through my hair to make sure it doesn’t look like I’ve been pacing like a love-struck idiot.

I steel myself for a moment, exhaling. Rachel told me she likes me. I don’t need to worry so much.

Opening the door, I get lost for a moment in her eyes, forgetting what I’m supposed to be doing. She’s not as dressed up as she was the other night, but she still looks beautiful, the fall of her hair shining under the dim porch light.

She gives me a soft smile. “Hey.”

The nervous energy that’s been buzzing around me all afternoon fades. “Hey.” I move in to kiss her, the act so natural, I barely realize what I’m doing until my mouth is on hers.

The enthusiastic way she returns my kiss does more than she knows to relieve the last of my worry.

“I missed you,” I murmur against her lips, loving the way they quirk up in response.

“Me, too,” she admits after a moment, ducking her head down shyly.

“Come in.” I lead her inside and hang her purse on the hook by the front entryway.

“It smells good,” she says, peeking into the kitchen. “Wait. You actually cooked?”

“I told you I would.”

“I thought you meant you’d pick up dinner.” She turns, her gaze landing on the glowing candles, table settings, and vase of flowers I’d picked up earlier. She looks back at me, her lips parted, expression going from amused to something softer. “You did all this?”

I shove my hands in my pockets, self-consciousness creeping over me. Does she think I’m trying too hard? I mean, I am. But I don’t want it to be too obvious. “Yeah. Don’t get too excited, though. Who knows how dinner will taste.”

She steps closer to the table, her fingers trailing lightly over the flower petals. “It’s really sweet. The effort means as much to me as the outcome.”

Well, A for effort, then. “You deserve it.”

She gives me a look I can’t quite interpret. Like she wants to believe me, but doesn’t know if she should. But before I can question it, she smiles and asks if the food is ready.

I plate our food and send up a silent prayer that everything is edible as we sit down. She takes a bite and tells me it’s good, teasing me about how I said I couldn’t cook. I defend myself good-naturedly, relieved it turned out okay, despite what Tanner said.

We exchange some funny stories about our work—my favorite being when she mistook salt for sugar one time as a kid helping her mom and dad at the bakery—and I love hearing her laugh, her demeanor open and free. It’s lightyears away from the shields she was putting up at first.

She spears a bite of chicken and pops it in her mouth, eyeing me with an amused smile.

“What is it?” I ask.

Her lips twist wryly. “I was thinking about how you said you’ve had a thing for me for a long time.”

Ah. I wondered if she was going to bring that up. “Yeah.” No sense in acting embarrassed by it. It’s the truth.

“How long is a long time, exactly?”

I pretend to ponder her question. “Ninth grade algebra,” I finally admit.

Her grin widens. “I knew it. I swear I could feel you watching me.”

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