“Fine.”
“And not drinks. Or dessert,” I said. “I’ll even follow a recipe. Just tell me what to bring.”
She and Miss Eunice traded looks, and then they smiled.
“In that case, you can make my famous sweet potato casserole,” Miss Eunice said.
“It’s the kind with a pecan crumble on top, not … gourmet, hand-crafted marshmallows from Peru, or some such nonsense,” Miss Loretta said.
“No problem,” I said. “Just send me the recipe.”
“I will,” Miss Eunice said.
“It’s not an assignment,” Fletch told me when he heard. “It’s a test. Don’t fail or you’ll be on napkin duty for the next three years.”
“Fletch, aren’tyouon napkin duty?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Difference is I asked for it. I don’t cook and I won’t cook.”
“Then why do you make it sound like a punishment?”
“Because to you, it would be. You care about community and fitting in.”
“You have a point.”
And he did have a point.
And today, I’m making one of my own.
I can follow a recipe, and I can fit into this town, thank you very much.
In the mirror, I check my reflection. I add a little light concealer and some lip gloss, and then smile, a feeling of total contentment overtaking me.
Then the timer in the kitchen goes off, and I drop everything and run, shoving past Sean in the hallway as he pulls on a button-down that can barely contain his shoulders but is otherwise church-appropriate.
My casserole is bubbling when I open the oven to check on it, but it’s not quite the right shade of golden yet. It needs maybe two more minutes. I’m about to set the timer when?—
Sean comes right up behind me. “Mm, smells incredible.”
“Doesn’t it?”
He bends down and buries his nose in the crown of my curls, murmuring against my temple, “Absolutely incredible.”
His hands find my hips, and he spins me around. A thrill zips through me—straight from my toes to the top of my head. I loop my arms around his neck, tugging gently on his hair, giving him a smile that’s probably hungrier than it should be.
We’re not saying I love you yet, but we’re done pretending we don’t want to kiss each other’s faces off at every possible opportunity.
We’re dating.
Roommates.
Dating roommates.
Who happen to be married.
“No making out,” I warn, even as his lips hover over mine. “I have …” His nearness short-circuits my brain. “Minutes. Two minutes. I can’t miss it.”
“It’s going to be perfect,” he says, flapping his bottom lip lazily against mine.
