Page 97 of Pucking Wild

“You asked me for that kiss in the street,” she says, stepping closer, putting her hand on his arm. “You asked me to wear your jersey. You asked me to be yours. When you want something badly enough, you’re good at asking for it. Why should this be any different?”

He glares down at her. You could cut this sudden sexual tension with a butter knife. “You don’t fight fair.”

“Have I ever?” She tips up on her toes to kiss his bearded jaw.

“Look, Mars Attack, it’s time to get you outta the net too,” I say, stepping in before they forget I’m here and start banging in the sand. “You told me to make all the decisions. Well, this is my decision. You’re going to the gala, and that’s final. You’re hosting, and that’s final. I will see you on Sunday two weeks from now at seven o’clock, and you better look un-fucking-obtainable. We’ve got a lot of sea turtles to save.”

36

After a long day of event planning with my Out of the Net team, I arrive home to see a new car parked in the driveway. It’s a flashy red two-seater sports car with a convertible top and Florida plates. Snatching up my bags off the passenger seat, I prepare myself to go inside.

I don’t want to fight with Ryan. I don’t want to exist in this awful bubble of unspoken worry and resentment. I want things to be fun again. I want us both to feel good. I want us to laugh and flirt.

Fuck, we need to have a grownup conversation. What am I always telling Rachel? Communicate, communicate, communicate. Look, I’m great at advice. I’m the queen of giving good, thoughtful relationship advice. I can dish it out all day.

Apparently, I just can’t take it.

I enter the house to find chaos waiting within. Ryan’s mix of rock music is pumping from the speakers, practically shaking the walls. The music isn’t the problem; it’s the smoke.

“Ohmygod,” I cry, dropping all the shit in my hands.

The moment I take a step forward, the smoke alarm starts going off, beeping in time with the music. Over the din, I hear Ryan shouting and cursing. Pots rattle and smash.

I dart around the corner to see smoke billowing out of the oven as Ryan uses mitts to drag something out. He’s coughing as he snatches for it, slamming it down on the stove top. Whatever was in that baking dish is burned all to hell, which accounts for the horrible smell.

It looks like a bomb went off. There’s cutting boards and cheese graters and mixing bowls, spilled flour dusting the counter, measuring cups in every size. The milk is out…and a Costco-sized supply of panko breadcrumbs…and a plastic tub of prepared lobster meat.

“Oh my god,” I say again, coughing into my hand, eyes burning.

Ryan slams the oven closed and snatches for a baking tray, waving it in the air to try and clear the smoke. He turns as he swipes and jumps a foot off the ground when he sees me standing there. “Fuck—Tess—Don’t just stand there, help me,” he bellows, panicked eyes wide.

I launch into motion, ducking under his pan, flailing arms to reach the stove. I turn off the broiler, no doubt the culprit in this fiasco, and glance down into the baking dish to see the remnants of what I can only assume was supposed to be homemade lobster mac and cheese.

Tears sting my eyes for a whole new reason as I slip behind him and hurry over to the sliding glass door. Flipping the latch, I drag the door all the way open, letting a burst of January air in to clear the smoke. I spin around, leaning against the glass as I watch him flail for another thirty seconds.

The smoke alarm finally shuts off, leaving us standing on opposite sides of the living room, chests heaving, eyes wide, as rock music pulses all around. Ryan blinks twice, then he drops the baking tray down with a clatter and snatches up his phone. In seconds, the music cuts, leaving a ringing silence in my ears.

“How long were you standing there?” he asks.

“About two seconds. I just got in when the alarm went off. What were you making?”

“I—nothing,” he says, a blush blooming in his cheeks. “Well, nothing now since I fucking ruined it.” He turns away, snatching up things off the counter and dropping them unceremoniously into the sink.

I inch closer. “Ryan, were you trying to make lobster mac and cheese?”

He goes still, not looking at me, his hands on the glass mixing bowl. Slowly he looks up. “Yeah, well, it was supposed to be a surprise…and it was supposed to be actually fucking edible.” He turns away, rattling the mixing bowl down into the sink.

I step up to the kitchen island and survey the mess. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” He glances over at the burned mess on the stove. “My mom gave me the recipe, and I swear I tried to follow the instructions, but I may have missed a step or…I don’t—I’m not good at cooking, okay? I can’t always follow the steps or, like, sometimes I skip them…”

“You turned the oven on broil instead of bake,” I say gently.

He spins around. “What?”

I point to the stove. “You had it on broil instead of bake.”

“What’s the difference?”

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