Page 46 of Fireworks Flame
Lucas Deiss doesn’t want me—because helovesme. I pull myself up and scurry into the kitchen, letting the words washover me. All this time, I’ve worried he’d disappear on me, onus, but there’s never been any danger of that happening. He loves us. Like I do, he might even need us.
“Couch?” he asks, closing the door and turning around with the bags held out enticingly.
I nod. “Perfect. I’ll just grab a water. What are you drinking?”
“A beer would be great, thanks.”
I grab the two bottles and join him on the couch, settling into the soft brown leather for the first time since I moved in. It molds like butter against my body, the kind of comfortable that makes you want to catch a cold so you have an excuse to lie on it for days. Deiss unpacks the cartons from the paper bag, spreading them out on the coffee table and waving his hand in invitation as he pops an entire crab rangoon in his mouth and grabs the remote. He flips to what looks to be a reality show about sailing and glances at me with his brow lifted in question. I pull the lid off my soup with a nod, too eager about the bowl’s contents to care about anything else.
Deiss swallows with a satisfied groan and reaches for the carton that holds the crab rangoon. “I think I could only eat these for the rest of my life and still die satisfied with the depth of my gustatory experience.”
“I can’t imagine that someone decidedgustatoryshould be the term to describe the act of tasting food. It’s got to be the least appetizing word I’ve ever heard.” My mouth waters as I peer in the carton he tilts toward me.
“It could bepustuleinstead,” he says, tilting his chin at the offered rangoon. “Pustuling.”
I groan and shake my head. “There goes my appetite.”
“The rangoon will revive it. Go on. I promise not to saypustuleagain. Or offer the wordsmearas an alternate option for grossness. And I won’t even mentionviscous.”
“Deiss!” I balance the soup in my lap so I can shove his shoulder, and he captures my wrist with strong fingers, guiding it toward the carton. I hesitate over the crispy temptations. I can’t reach my hand in there, especially since I chastised him only hours ago about daring to reach into my carrot bowl. “You only have three more.”
He scoffs. “You think I’m a rookie? There’s another order of them in the bag.”
I hold back a grin and pluck one from the carton, taking a dainty bite. It’s crispy and salty and creamy and delicious, and a murmur of pleasure escapes me in spite of myself.
“Such an animal.” Deiss shakes his head with judgment, his eyes brightening mischievously.
I inhale my surprise, and a part of it goes the wrong way down my throat, making me cough. Deiss reaches for my water bottle, twisting it open and passing it to me with one hand while his other tears open the fried rice. He manages to scoop a heaping pile of it on the chopsticks, getting it all to his mouth without losing a single grain. I lean back, sipping the water and turning toward the TV as I take down the rangoon.
“Have you seen this before?” he asks, nodding at the screen.
I shake my head and spoon some soup into my mouth. It’s tasty, but it’s no rangoon.
“She’s the worst,” he says, referring to the blonde in the uniform. “But she’s so funny, you can’t help liking her. Twenty bucks says she’ll pick a fight with someone by the end of the episode.”
I look at him in wonderment. “You can’t really watch this show.”
“Why not?” He holds out his rice and reaches for my soup. Without thinking, I take his carton, allowing the swap. “Granted, I don’t make a point of catching every episode. But it makes forgreat TV. There’s beautiful scenery and lots of interesting insights about the boating life.”
“That’s your excuse?” I lift a skeptical eyebrow. “The educational aspect?”
“Not that I think an appreciation for reality TV warrants anexcuse, but no. The main draw is the drama. And, of course, it also helps that Jen”—he sloshes my soup toward the blonde on the screen—“has been on every one of the seasons, and her uniform just keeps getting shorter.”
I burst out laughing despite myself, distracted by the way his mouth wraps around my spoon. Am I supposed to grab another one from the kitchen? Or does he intend to give that one back to me?
No man I’ve ever dated has even dared offer me a bite off his fork, much less tried to eat one off mine. It’s a level of intimacy for women like Elena, people who are all impulse and no boundaries. Hesitantly—curiously—I reach for the chopsticks Deiss has balanced in his carton of fried rice. With careful precision, I gather a tiny scoop of fried rice and lift it to my lips, wrapping my mouth around the place Deiss’s was only moments ago. Unsurprisingly, it’s delicious.
“Here it comes,” Deiss says, balancing my soup on his knee as his other hand turns up the volume on the remote. On the screen, Jen approaches a deckhand with a scowl on her face. “Someone is about to get eviscerated.”
“Do we care why?” I ask, using Deiss’s chopsticks to excavate a shrimp out of the rice.
“Nope.” He takes another bite of soup and passes it back to me before reaching for the moo goo gai pan.
For the rest of the show, we trade the cartons back and forth between us, keeping up a running commentary on what’shappening onscreen. To my delight, when the episode ends, just like magic, another one begins. At some point, I notice that Deiss’s thigh is pressed against mine. I study it out of the corner of my eye, noting how natural it looks. It’s a perfectly normal amount of closeness for two friends who grew up together.
There’s absolutely no reason for it to make my stomach flutter the way itdoes.
CHAPTER 15
