Page 47 of Overtime
“Of course. And that would be great, actually!” Oh no. Am I giggling? That’s way overdoing it for how awkward I feel. “Your friends are lovely but not super helpful.” At least this is true. After the move, while Aran was napping, all his friends did was share glory stories about themselves. I jotted some of them down but don’t really understand most of it.
Pouring a little flour into the bowl, he mutters, “Good thing we have all night, huh?”
CHAPTER 15
ARAN
What am I thinking?
Am I even thinking?
No, the answer is absolutely hell no. My brain shut down the second I saw her go down, and only my amygdala has kept me going since.
I let her rant as I gather all the ingredients to make arepas because, unlike my brain, my body is still fully functioning and is starving. My hands are on autopilot as they dump Harina P.A.N. into a bowl without measuring. Based on the size of her sandwich the first time I met her and how much pizza she ate last weekend, I have a good gauge of how much she’ll eat.
Good thing we have all nightmy ass. It’s a bad thing. A very bad thing. The whole point of me coming home tonight instead of hitting the town with the guys was to behave well. Keep myself out of trouble.
Strawberry is trouble. Especially when she looks up at me with shiny eyes and a tentative little smile that makes me want to do whatever it takes to see it grow.
“Are you sure”—here she drags out the letteruuntil her voice breaks—“that you want to help me with my book research? I’mtalking about super basic stuff like, for example, what the heck is icing?”
I stop. “You’re kidding.”
“No.” But she’s smiling, so I’m confused. “I watched bits and pieces of a game with the guys, and a whole game on my own later, but everyone kept sayingicing thisandicing that, and I only know about the kind that goes on cakes.”
Biting down a smile, I set aside the flour pack and roll up my sleeves to my elbows. “Fine, I’ll answer all your questions.”
That perks her up. “All of them?”
“About hockey.”
“Hmm.”
Sneaky little Strawberry. What was she thinking about?
Curiosity gnaws at me as much as hunger, but asking would be too close to flirting. I try to concentrate on the dough I’m making with a pinch of salt and water. I had never cooked a thing until I left home for college, and even though my parents live across town, I couldn’t spend my off time making trips home so Mom would feed me. I had no other choice but to learn.
“I’ll ask you non-hockey questions too, though. Feel free to grunt when you don’t want to answer.”
I don’t grunt.
The dough is consistent enough that I can shape it. I grab a good handful for her arepa and mold it into a neat ball. Then I slap it between my hands until it flattens into a disk.
“First question. What are you making?”
This one’s harmless, so I say, “Arepas. It’s the national dish of Venezuela, the country my parents came from.”
“Oh. Okay, color me intrigued. Next question?—”
“Too many already,” I cut in with a deadpanned voice.
“Well, we have to do something if I’ve got to stay up all night long, right?”
Shit.
Every fiber of my being stops except for two things. My heart, which is busy pumping blood down south. And my eyes, which narrow.
She gapes. “Is your mind in the gutter all the time?”
