Page 116 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“Maybe I only buy them because I don’t know how else to invite you over.”
“I knew it. You don’t actually like blackberries. No one likes blackberries besides me.” Mom would never buy them. How many times did I make her and Dad waffles, and not once were there any blackberries anywhere? Strawberries for Dad, blueberries for Mom, raspberries if Julie was headed over,peaches if Adam was dropping in, oranges for Portia. Never blackberries.
“I love blackberries.” Mike adds them, along with yogurt and granola, to a second bowl.
“Too tart. Too bitter. Obnoxious, strange little pit inside.”
“A lingering complex flavor that’s worth savoring.”
“They stain your teeth.”
“Blackberries make everything better. Even irredeemable salads and cupcakes that have no right claiming the cup or the cake identity.”
I grab Mike’s arm. It’s not pretty. I’m not smooth. I don’t know what I’m doing. But I do know that if I don’t touch him, I’ll lose my nerve.
“What?”
I have to say something. “You can hear the surf from your kitchen. Even with the windows closed.”
He scoffs but hands me a bowl before wandering out to the new couch in his living room, but not before he opens the top half of the Dutch door. Now the sound of the surf is unmistakable. “There’s a poem about the ocean and white horses. The waves are their hooves pounding. My grandmother would read it to me when I was little. ‘Do you hear the horses?’ she’d ask.”
I reach into Mike’s pantry and pull out a pack of red licorice. I stashed it here after a long afternoon of dog walking. I hoped he’d find it, but it remains unopened. I bring it to the living room with me and toss it on the coffee table.
“You know you want to,” I say before taking a seat on the couch next to him.
“That’s not a good enough reason.” He swallows a single blackberry. “I know I want to do quite a few things right now.”
There’s such intensity to his words I think I might spontaneously combust. I should back away. I should create distance, but instead I inch closer.
“Doesn’t mean I should.” His gaze is melting me. My insides are molten right now.
I know a lot about shoulds. And right now I should change the subject. I should give the man some space. I definitely should not steal a blackberry.
“Tell me more about your grandma and the poem.” I lean in and scoop out a blackberry with my spoon before Mike can stop me. Yes, I brush against his chest in the process, but I changed the subject. One out of three shoulds isn’t bad.
“We’d eat licorice in her kitchen and read. She’d always hold the books because my hands were sticky.”
I take a bite of my blackberry parfait. It’s delicious—everything Mike makes is delicious—but it’d be better with more blackberries, and I just ate my last. “Would you read it to me?” I attempt to steal another of Mike’s blackberries, but he’s wise to my plan. He holds the bowl far out of my reach.
“I don’t know if I have that one,” he says dryly.
“Then something else.” I try again. I make several ungraceful attempts that have me lunging over Mike. He moves the bowl out of my reach each time. Oh, to have the wingspan of a tall human right now.
“Like what, Beatrice?”
My thigh is pressed against his. I set my blackberry-less parfait down ages ago, but how we haven’t spilled Mike’s all over his new couch is beyond me. “I don’t know.” I lunge again and grab Mike’s arm, but he pulls it free with a cocky smile.
“Your favorite passage fromWuthering Heights.” I rest my hand on Mike’s knee for leverage and try again without any luck. “A poem of Lord Byron’s.” I’m all over this man, trying to get a blackberry.
Mike laughs. “Is that the best you can do? Emily Brontë and Byron?”
I lunge again and practically fall across him in the process. I’m ridiculous, but I’m also having too much fun to stop. Mike, too, if his amused smile is any indication. He lifts the bowl directly above his head, taunting me.
“How ’bout the last chapter ofNorthanger Abbey?” I climb into his lap and enjoy the moment I catch him off guard. I grab the bowl before he drops it and pop a blackberry into my mouth.
“Maybe.” Mike takes the bowl from me and sets it on the coffee table. “If you ask nicely.”
His hand grazes across my arm, and I’m a puppet. He’s found the strings to the corners of my lips. One tug, and they’re up. A second tug, and I’m closer, my hands skirting the collar of his shirt. I’m breathless. I could blame it on trying to get the blackberries, but I’m a grown woman. It was never about the blackberries. “Please.”
