Page 22 of Last First Kiss
Thankfully, my room isn’t a mess like Clara’s, so I quickly move most of my clothes, shoes, and personal items to her bedroom, leaving behind anything that could reasonably be in a spare—my camera, my tripods, lights, and backdrops.
It already looked like a bomb had gone off in Clara’s room, and now it’s so much worse. But I don’t have time to stress about it too much because I need to change my bed sheets and pull down the pictures on my walls before Clara and Lala get back. They should be back any second since the coffee shop is down the street.
I only leave up pictures of myself and Clara toreallysell the relationship. Because what genuine couple doesn’t have a million photos of themselves all over their house?
The rest come down: photos of myself on vacation with family, a few of me and my parents from high school and college graduation, a couple of pictures with my dad’s side of the family, and a bunch more with Isabella, Lily, and Valeria. But the rest—about fifteen of them—are of Clara and me. There’s one from our beach vacation last year where we’re laughing and holding on to each other as the sun sets behind us. There’s one of us at a cafe, where we’re sharing a slice of cake and just looking at each other with that peaceful, happy vibe that’s just so ... us.
But my favorite pictures are the spontaneous ones—the ones we take at home during one of our movie nights or on our DIY spa days, just the two of us at our best, completely content being together.
The front door creaks open, followed by Clara shouting, “Honey, we’re home!” I roll my eyes and smile to myself.
I grin as I tuck the pictures behind my back. Clara and Lala are in the kitchen, unpacking the Thai food I’d ordered and setting down coffee cups on the island. I quickly slip the pictures still in my hand into Clara’s room before joining them.
“Come eat,” Clara says as she hands me a bowl of Pad See Ew.
“Thank you.” I glance at Clara, who winks at me.
Convincing Lala that we’re dating will be the easiest thing ever, because Clara is the biggest flirt who has ever existed.
I play it up, giving her a soft kiss on the cheek, but the second my lips touch her skin, a tiny spark zips through us, making me jump back in surprise. I quickly press my hands to my lips, but the electric sensation lingers.
“You shocked me,” I mumble through my fingers, eyesfixed on Clara as her tongue slips out to trace the corner of her lip.
“No,youshockedme,” she says, her breath catching.
I narrow my eyes at her, ready to argue. But before I can get a word out, Lala says, “Look at that, sparks are flying between you.” She clasps her hands together, and her eyes are so warm with love that something flutters deep within my chest.
Clara laughs and shakes her head, watching me with that soft, almost dreamy look she gives me all the time. Like she’s taking in everything about me, memorizing every tiny detail. Her smile is easy. It makes my chest feel lighter, as if I could float if I wanted to.
Clara pulls me nearer as one of her arms slips around my waist, and the sudden closeness makes my stomach flip. I end up with my back pressed gently against her chest, one of her arms resting comfortably around my neck, and the other draped around my waist, pulling me in even more snugly. So close, her biceps are threatening to cut off my air supply if she hugs me any tighter. But I love it. It’s the way she always hugs me—like she could hold me forever.
“What can I say?” Clara grins, her voice playful. “We’re the cutest.” She plants a big kiss on my cheek. A kiss that makes everything in me feel alight and giddy, stealing a laugh from deep in my belly.
Selling this fake relationship is going to be way too easy.
“Yes,” Lala says as she takes us in with soft eyes and a sweet smile.
We stay like this for about ten minutes, catching up with Lala and listening to all the latest drama involving her bingo friends. We heard all about how Mrs. Meyer cheated at bingo a few days ago, and the latest dates her friends haveset up for their grandchildren. I’m so grateful I don’t have to go through any of that anymore.
“Will you show me my room?” Lala asks. “I think I need a little rest before I make you guys some dinner.”
“Oh, you don’t have to, we can order something,” I say instinctively, still holding on to Clara’s arms around me.
“No, no, I’ll make some chilaquiles. But I need to put my feet up before I swell.” Lala pats her legs.
“You know we won’t fight you if you promise chilaquiles,” Clara jokes.
Chilaquiles are a classic Mexican dish—crispy tortilla chips tossed in red or green salsa—but let’s be real, red is hands down the best—until just soft but still a little crunchy. Lala usually tops it with queso fresco, crema, pickled onions, avocado, and a fried egg. It’s the most perfect meal I’ve ever had, but when Lala makes it, it’s a million times better.
As Clara lets go of me, I brace for the loss of her warmth—but before it can register, she grabs my hand and tugs me forward.
Lala catches sight of our intertwined fingers and smiles, throwing me a wink.
The three of us head toward my bedroom, Clara slipping her arm around my shoulders as we follow Lala in. She settles immediately on the bed, completely at ease.
I hold my breath, hoping the room doesn’t give me away. But honestly, I think it passes. The closet and dresser are empty, and the walls are almost bare.
“How’d you do this so fast?” Clara whispers, her breath warm against my ear.
