Page 51 of Frosting and Flames

“It was acting,” I say, needing him to accept the justification. Otherwise, I have to admit what an idiot I am. “We were both acting.”

“It was acting,” he repeats, even as his gaze searches mine, like he hasn’t decided if he believes me.

“I’m so sorry.” I stare at the floor, hoping he doesn’t find the truth in my eyes. That I got caught up in a moment that wasn’tanything. That I kept thinking about his hands and the sudden urge of wanting them on me. For him to have kissed me back, tugging me close, those calloused palms running over my bare skin, leaving tingles in their wake.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Mission accomplished, right?”

“Right.”

He didn’t mean that about me turning him on. About always having a thing for me. It was acting.

Even if the look in his eye felt so real for a moment there, I forgot myself.

God, he’s being nice. Why isn’t he running for the hills at all the craziness I’ve been putting him through?

“Did you want to make the cornbread?” he asks, gesturing to the kitchen.

He seems relaxed on the surface, but I’ve been around him enough by now to recognize something else lingering underneath the calm facade. The way he’s shifting his weight, his shoulders stiff looking, his expression flickering before he schools it back in place.

When did I become able to read him like this?

I shy away from the reminder of how much I’ve been paying attention to him. Is he freaked out by what happened? And why wouldn’t he be? I kissed him unexpectedly, then flipped out.

Running a hand through my hair, I grab onto his offer. “Yes, let’s make the cornbread. And thanks for understanding about… everything.”

He nods and thankfully doesn’t give me a chance to slide back into awkwardness as we make the food, asking me questions about the bakery, my sisters, Jae—anything and everything until my earlier mishap is forgotten.

Well, not forgotten. I won’t ever fully forget it. But I can move on from it.

Once the cornbread is in the oven, it feels natural to keep talking, and I discover we have a mutual love of Italian food and refusal to step on sidewalk cracks.

“It just feels wrong,” he says, giving a mock shudder.

I grin, knowing exactly what he means. “Do you believe in bad luck?”

His lips twist. “I wouldn’t say I believe in it. But I also don’tnotbelieve.”

I laugh at his nonsensical answer.

He laughs, too. “I mean, why risk bad luck if you could help it, right?”

I nod in agreement. “Sydney and I had run out to get something at the store one time and she was making fun of me for the whole sidewalk crack thing. So I purposely stepped on one and she made a big deal about how the world didn’t come crashing down, blah blah blah. Well, when we got back out to my car, guess what?”

“What?”

I keep my smile to myself at how invested he seems in my story. “Car battery was dead. She’s never made fun of me since.”

“Oooh. I have chills. Seriously.” He’s grinning, so I know he’s not serious, but it’s funny all the same. “You have to respect the sidewalk rules,” he says. “Again, not that I’m superstitious…”

“But maybe a little stitious?”

He nods. “How do you feel about wishes?”

Wishes? “What do you mean?”

“You know, birthday wishes. New Year’s wishes. Eleven-eleven wishes.”

“Oh, I love eleven-eleven wishes. I’m never up at that time of night, but I love catching it during the day.”

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