Page 123 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“I’m serious.” Suddenly, persuading this poor cashier to see things my way is important. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m a trained lawyer—explaining my side of things is always important. “He’s getting a master’s in theater studies.”
“Comparative literature, actually.”
“But the plays? You starred in the…” My brain is foggy—probably has something to do with the white chocolate Bavarian cream that is setting off fireworks and sparks in my head. “The tragedy and then the comedy and—”
“It turns out that literature is my preferred means of character study. A good book puts it all out there. I’m sure you’ve noticed that by now.”
“Reading all your grandmother’s books must have helped,” I say too pointedly. I shovel more cake in my mouth. It’s so good my eyes are watering. They’re also watering because Mike is so insufferable. His grandmother’s books haveput it all out there. Because she was an introspective genius, with a soul so beautiful I shoved it down Mike’s throat just so I could entertain the fantasy of being attracted to a man who was as intelligent as he was sexy.
“You spend half the night in my bed, climb on top of me the next morning, beg me to read to you, and then disappear without any explanation. Just ghosted me until this afternoon when you yell, ‘I want cake.’”
“Spare me.” I slam my credit card on the counter. “An eight-inch Swiss black forest cake to go.”
“Um, excuse me, ma’am,” the cashier says.
“Don’t tell me you believe this guy.”
“I always believe in second-chance romances, but actually what I wanted to say was that we only take cash, check, or Venmo.” She taps the sign taped to the counter right next to my card.
“Oh. Oh.” I try to fish out my wallet. I doubt I have the cash on hand.
“On me,” Mike says, gallantly placing the exact change on the counter. He then adds what amounts to a twenty percent tip.
We walk back to his truck in frosty silence. “Why do you need a cake all of a sudden?” He opens the passenger door for me.
I wait until Mike is back in the truck. “My mother told me I had to bring a safety dessert to Thanksgiving.”
“Why?” He swerves the truck onto the road.
“Because Adam offered to bring dessert.”
Mike has nothing to say to that. We drive back to Neptune, and rather than taking myself and my pink-boxed cake to my cottage, I follow him into his kitchen, where I rummage in his drawer for a fork before opening the box.
“Sometimes I just want to eat cake and say screw it.” I shovel a bite of the Swiss cake into my mouth. It is heavenly. I didn’t even stop to get a plate. I opened the pink box and just dove in with a fork.
“Same,” Mike says, grabbing a fork and taking a bite.
“No. Not same.” I stab at the frosting before he can. “Because when I say ‘sometimes,’ I mean ‘all the times.’ But when you say ‘sometimes,’ you actually mean it.”
“So Bea’s ‘sometimes’ means ‘always’?”
I smile with the fork between my lips and nod.
“Then why not just say that?” Mike licks his fork.
“Because I’m worried about how it’s going to land. I grew up in a family of legal minds. I do not want to be accused of perjury. I don’t want to be tried and convicted should my ‘always’ ever have an exception.”
“So you learned to say ‘sometimes.’”
I bounce my eyebrows. “Sometimes.”
“What does ‘always’ mean, then?”
“It means someone misspoke or is too stupid to hedge their bets. ‘Always’ means someone is mad and not fighting fair. ‘Always’ is undefendable. A mistake.”
Mike snorts. “Or it could mean what it means. I always add almond extract to my vanilla frosting. You always watchStarship Cruiserafter a bad day.”
“I sometimes watchStarship Cruiserafter a bad day.”
