I take the small rectangular object without looking at it. Some kind of candy, I think. “Thanks,” I say, opening the door and settling in my seat.
I place my coffee in the drink holder and pull out my sandwich, opening the packaging.
I sink my teeth into the fluffy white bread, enjoying the savory (though slightly bland) chicken tikka inside. It isn’t until I’ve inhaled half of it that I look down at the candy bar in my lap.
I go still.
When my dad handed it to me, I didn’t think much about it. I gave him something, so I assumed he felt like he had to return the favor. But that’s not what this is.
It’s a Cadbury bar. Distinct purple packaging, the white text on the front stating that it’s the “fruit and nut” kind.
The summer I visited my dad, he bought every flavor, and after dinner we tried a square from each. “Fruit and nut” was my favorite.
They sell them in the U.S. now, but it doesn’t taste the same. I’ve heard the formula’s changed everywhere, actually, but when I open the wrapper, break off a square, and pop it into my mouth, it takesme back to my father’s house. Quiet dinners, limited conversation, but always the promise of chocolate at the end.
I chew, and my throat feels a little thick as I swallow it down.
“It was nice of you to get this,” I tell my dad, twisting in my seat to face him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He looks down. “I wasn’t sure if you still liked those.”
“I do.” I break off another square. “I haven’t had them in a long time, though. Do you want some?”
“No,” he says. “But thank you.”
My dad lifts his sandwich to his mouth, and I turn back around. I pick up my cup of coffee and catch Jacob staring at the Cadbury bar in my lap.
“Your dad doesn’t like chocolate,” Jacob says.
I frown. “That’s not true,” I say, thinking about all the different flavors my father and I tried together. “Right?” I glance at my dad in the rearview mirror.
He finishes chewing, then lifts a shoulder. “It’s not my favorite.”
Jacob frowns.
“What about you? Do you want some?” I ask Jacob. “You seem like you have a sweet tooth.”
My gaze tracks to his neck, where I smeared whipped cream. To his lips, as I remember the way his tongue licked spoon after spoon of cranachan.
His eyes flash with heat, but he hides it quickly. “I do,” he says. “But I’m not a fan of raisins.”
I bite off another piece, savoring the taste, and I catch the way he’s watching me, the way he’s looking at my mouth.
“Well, I’ll eat anything covered in chocolate,” I say. The words come out more suggestive than I meant them to. I was only trying to reference the chocolate-covered crickets we’d talked about when wefirst met. He told me he wanted to forget everything that happened between us, but pieces of that night keep playing in my mind, and I don’t want to be the only one affected by it. I want him to feel the same way.
“I don’t normally like raisins either, but I like them in this,” I say. “And the crunch from the nuts.”
Okay, that sounded vaguely suggestive too.
His lips twitch at that, like he’s amused but doesn’t want me to see, and it makes something in my chest ache.
I know I haven’t known him long, but I miss how easily he smiled before. His cheeky expressions and rumbly laugh. He hasn’t done anything like that since the rehearsal dinner.
“You have something right—” He raises his thumb to the right corner of his bottom lip. I mirror the gesture.
“Here?” I pull my thumb away, spot the melted chocolate on my skin, and lick it off.
Jacob lets out a sound, a loud exhale that turns into a cough.
