Page 40 of When in Rome

“Point me to the pancakes.”

Amelia comes up beside me, arm brushing my abdomen as she reaches in front of me to lift a sheet of aluminum foil off a stack ofpancakes. My stomach clenches and I press myself back against the counter to evade her touch. It’s like the game I used to play as a kid, the Floor Is Lava, except this time the game is called the Woman Is Lava. I can’t touch her or I’ll burn.

Amelia’s hair is down and long again today, looking wavy and wild around her. She’s still wearing my pajama set, but thankfully this time she’s wearing the baggy button-up shirt, too. For some reason, I love that her eyes are a little puffy from sleeping, and her cheeks are pink. I’ve never met a prettier woman.

Her pancakes on the other hand…

I squint down at them. “Did you add cocoa powder to these?”

“No.” She presses her lips together while poking the top pancake with a fork. “I think they might have gotten a little too done.”

“Just a little,” I say dryly, and this earns me a light elbow to the ribs.

And based on the fact that they have the texture of a wall, I’d say she used too much flour.

There’s nothing in me that wants to try one of these pancakes, but she looks so proud of herself for making something from scratch that I can’t help but take the fork from her hand, move a pancake from the plate, and cut off a sliver. Cut is maybe too generous of a word. More like Ibreak offa chunk of the pancake. Amelia watches me closely as I raise the bite to my mouth. The second it hits my tongue, my body revolts and begs me to spit it out. But her eyes are lighting up and an excited smile is tugging her raspberry lips, so I keep chewing slowly and trying to think of anything nice I can say about her nasty creation.

“So? How are they?” She clasps her hands together under her chin. She’s a kid on her birthday waiting for her present.

I swallow the bite. “Oh, they’re shit.” Yeah, I couldn’t think of anything nice. “Like really, they’re bad. What the hell did you put in these?” I say, with a chuckle running through my voice as I try to bounce away from the dish towel she’s attempting to pop me with.

“Would it kill you to be nice?” She’s laughing, too, and chasing after me with that damn towel. The edge of it licks me on the back once and it’s for sure going to leave a mark.

I grab a pot and hold it in front of me as a shield. “You didn’t let me finish! I was going to say…but they’reyourshitty pancakes that you made yourself, and for that, you should be so proud!”

“Oh yes, I’m just beaming with pride.” Her voice is all sarcasm, as she gives up her chase and sinks down onto a barstool. She puts her hand in her hair and tosses it over her head, making it look even more alluring somehow. “Are they really that bad?”

“Like sand at the beach that a dog has peedon.”

“Wow,” she says with an incredulous look. “Fine. I guess you’ll just have to teach me then.” She perks up like maybe I won’t remember I already told her no. Thing is, I could teach her the recipe. It’s not actually some great secret I want to take to my grave like I let her believe the other day. But I sort of like the playfulness added to the air by me keeping it from her. I have something she wants but can’t have. Seems only fair since she’s quickly becoming the someone I want but also can’t have.

“Nope. I already told you it’s a secret.” I pull down a mug and pour a cup of the coffee she made, hoping to all the coffee gods that it doesn’t taste anything like her pancakes.

“I’ll figure it out. How hard can pancakes be to perfect?”

I eye her charred stack. “For the average person, or for you?”

She scrunches her nose and then lobs the kitchen towel at my head. The towel lands elegantly on my shoulder.

“I’m wounded,” I say dryly as I lift the mug to my lips and take a hesitant sip. It’s good. Really good, actually. “Huh.” I raise the mug in silent cheers. “You make shit pancakes but your coffee is great. So that’s something.”

Her eyes twinkle with amusement. If she had anything else near her, I know it would get chucked at my head, too. Instead, she has to settle for words, and somehow I know I’m not going to likewhatever she’s about to say. Amelia tilts her head, unconsciously showing off the graceful curve of her exposed neck. “Well, according to you, I’m alsosoooopretty.”

I groan and roll my eyes away from her. “C’mon, don’t bring that up. I was drunk.” I was hoping she wouldn’t mention it—would just let us both go through the day pretending it never happened. Guess my hope was misplaced.

“You expect me to not bring up what happened last night?” She laughs like that’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard, and she then glances over her shoulder. “You begged to kissme.”

I hold her taunting gaze andhmmlightly. Another leisurely sip, and I lean back against the countertop. “Begged? Interesting. That’s not quite how I rememberit.”

Her smile falters and I could swear she holds her breath.You want to play, Amelia, let’s play.

“Well, you were the drunk one so I’m not sure how reliable your memory canbe.”

“You came out of the bathroom. Wearing those pj’s. Wrapped your arms around me when I stumbled, guided me to the couch where I lay down on my stomach. You left me to go find bandages and when you asked where my first aid kit was I told you I’m not a mom but Band-Aids are in the bathroom.” I take a step forward, set my coffee mug on the kitchen island where she’s sitting. I lean on my forearms. “And then…when you came back from the bathroom, and before you doctored up my hand, I remember privately thinking how much you smelled exactly likemycologne.”

I know my speculation is completely accurate because Amelia’s eyes are wide as saucers and she’s almost holding her breath. Her cheeks are strawberries. I want to run my thumb across them. Instead, I throw my last memory on the table like a gauntlet. “And after I asked if I could kiss you,just one more time…” I let the words dangle, waiting to see if she’s brave enough to make the last leap or if I’ll have to push her.

The Amelia I first met would have made an excuse right now and probably slipped out of the room to avoid an uncomfortable situation. Or she would have laughed it off and blamed the tender forehead kiss on how tired she was or something. The new Amelia is dangerous. She sits forward—so close our mouths could touch if I tipped forward—and she controls that embarrassed strawberry blush into a seductive sweep of color as delicious looking as her full raspberry lips.

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