Page 69 of Faker
I’ve done the normal jumping-in-too-fast routine with exes, and it’s always failed. This time with Tate, I want to do things differently.
“I can do slow,” I say.
Relief seems to be the undercurrent of the lips-only smile he flashes me.
A single doubt lingers in my head. “The stakes are pretty high though, don’t you think? Even if we’re careful and do everything perfectly, there’s still a chance it won’t work out. If that happens, we’ll have to work together in the aftermath. Hurt feelings, failed expectations. It won’t be pretty. It might even be worse than it was before. Doesn’t that worry you?”
No frown or grimace like I expect. Instead, he flashes the easiest, most relaxed smile. “You’re worth the risk.”
With my eyes still on him, I feel for the door handle. I need to steady myself after praise of that caliber. He grabs me for one more kiss. It mimics the filthy kisses we shared in this car just minutes ago, but this time it’s slower, charged with more emotion.
“I don’t plan on failing,” he says through a grunt. “Do you?”
I run my hand against his stubbly cheek. “No way.”
I step out of his car on wobbly legs. He waits until I’m inside before he pulls out of the driveway. Sleep will be impossible tonight, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that Tate Rasmussen and I are dating. I couldn’t be happier.
•••
RAINBOW SPRINKLES AREthe only thing I see. They dot my kitchen counter, the bowl of cream cheese frosting, the floor. Bits are even nestled in my hair. Tonight I’m baking Funfetti cupcakes to surprise Tate after his Wednesday evening rock climbing session. A dating-appropriate activity, if I’ve ever known one.
It’s been a handful of days since our first date. Almost three weeks since our very first kiss. A few flirty words, cheesy grins, and prolonged stares are exchanged at work, but that’s it. I’m still recovering from surgery and the car contortion session, and we shouldn’t tempt ourselves. Sugar temptation, though? Totallyacceptable if, due to health reasons, you’re trying to avoid sex with your broody coworker-turned-dating-interest.
While I frost the last cupcake, I wonder how Tate’s cake looked on the day of his favorite birthday, and if these cupcakes are anywhere close to satisfactory. Would this beautiful, health-conscious man even allow himself the indulgence?
With my index finger, I swipe a lump of the frosting from the bowl. Under the sunlight filtering through the nearby window, it glistens. Just like Tate. I pop it in my mouth, taking my time licking it off. My cheeks heat. It’s perverse what I’m doing, allowing his childhood memory to fuel this naughty moment.
I load them into a plastic container, zip to my car, and drive to the rock climbing gym. When I spot his trademark gray sedan, I park a few spots away, walk over, and try the doors. They’re all locked. I sigh. Of course. I set the container on the roof of his car and turn back to mine. Pulling out my phone, I type out a text to him:
Left a surprise for you on top of your car. Happy climbing!
After returning home, I clean up the mess on the kitchen counter and fold the basket of laundry I’ve been putting off for a week. I am contemplating a hot soak in the tub when there’s a knock at my door. When I open it, Tate’s focused face greets me, along with a bottle of wine in his hand. The plastic container of cupcakes rests in his other. Three cupcakes are already gone.
“Up for turning your surprise into date number two?”
I’ve never seen his face this bright before. His eyes sparkle, his cheeks flush, and it is divine.
“Yes, please.”
He follows me to the kitchen, gushing about the cupcakes. “They’re my favorite. Best surprise ever.”
I pour us glasses of water and fetch two wineglasses. “It’s just a box recipe.” I blush. My eyes fall to my glass. “I’m awful at making anything from scratch. You should have seen the macarons I made for Kaitlin’s baby shower.”
He’s standing on the other side of the counter, which is the perfect distance for him to stretch out his arm and rest his hand under my chin. He tilts my head up.
“None of that disparaging talk. They’re delicious.”
When he licks his lips, I shiver. “A little more than two weeks,” I mumble.
I don’t have to explain what I mean. He understands that I’m counting down the number of weeks I have to wait until I can engage in certain physical activities.
His fingers glide down the side of my neck. A soft moan is the least obnoxious noise I can manage.
“I should probably stay on this side of the counter.” He demolishes half of a cupcake in one bite.
I watch him chew and swallow. “Good idea.” For a few seconds, my eyes scan his sculpted upper body, which is displayed nicely in a sleeveless workout shirt.
He pours both of us wine, then clinks his glass to mine. “So what’s your typical second-date activity?”
