Page 32 of Fire and Icing

I look down at the forks in my hand. I don’t quite have a death grip on them—not exactly.

Dustin wraps his fist around the silverware, and then, with his other hand, he starts to gently pry each of my fingers away.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “Is this manhandling?”

“Uh. No.” I drop my hand into my lap.

He’s still smiling. I wonder if he smiles in his sleep. This man is always smiling. I couldn’t tell through that fireman suit he had on when we met, but now that I’m getting to know him a little better, I think he’s the kind of person who always has a smile on his face. The jury’s still out on that one smile of his—the one honed to disarm.

I wouldn’t mind if he flashed it at me again. Just once tonight.

But that smile? Instinctual. Warm. Inviting. It has an overpowering but subtle way of pulling a person close. Of slipping past defenses I didn’t mean to lower. I forgave him without preparing myself to let him off the hook. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that smile was more than partially responsible for my change of heart.

Over my lifetime, I’ve learned not everything that comes close stays. Dustin’s the type who could slip out just as easily as he slipped in. And I’m not sure I’d see him going until the space he filled went quiet.

He digs one of the forks into the alfredo and piles a mound of it onto my plate.

“Oh.” He looks up at me, his innocent expression filled with warmth. “I forgot to ask you. Did you want pasta?”

“I love this pasta. And the sandwich.”

They’re actually my two favorite items on the menu at Gino’s, but Dustin does not need to know that little detail. Not at all. He’s already got the invisible upper hand.

How does he do it?

Last week I was madder than a wet hen at this man. And now I’m sitting alone with him in my shop allowing him to pry utensils out of my hands and serve me Italian. He continues to serve me portions from each container but the dessert, completely oblivious to the overthinking going on inside my head.

“So,” I say around a bite of salad. “The rules.”

Dustin looks up at me through his lashes, his fork poised in front of his lips. A lock of his sun-bleached hair flops forward.

“You like rules, huh?”

“We need them.”

I don’t give any explanation as to why they’re so essential and he doesn’t ask me to. I appreciate the easy way he flows along with my current discombobulated state.

Maybe Syd’s right. I really should get out more.

“Okay … so, these rules of yours …” He’s amused—mocking me, but not in a way that makes me hate it.

“Of ours,” I correct him.

“Ours. Yeah. Okay. So? What do you have in mind?”

I take a bite of pasta. It’s delicious. I chew and Dustin watches me. The spotlight he shines on me should feel uncomfortable. Instead, I’m an unfamiliar combination of relaxed and jittery.

I swallow and say, “Well, you know the judges made the rule that the contestants need to be partners. So, we’re supposedly dating.”

He wags his eyebrows like a seventh grader talking about cooties.

I roll my eyes like my former self around the same age.

“Are you going to take this seriously?” I ask.

“I am. Sorry. I really am. I’m at your service. I’ll be the best fake boyfriend you’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve literally never seen one.”

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