“They’re harder to make than I thought.” His mouth quirks up. “Good thing I’ve been practicing.”
I stare. The thought of him perfecting pop tarts in secret is doing something funny to my chest. “This is where you were last night?”
“Try it.”
I take a bite, shutting my eyes as a flood of flavors dances over my tongue. Raspberry jam in the middle, buttery pastry surrounding it, and delicate lavender icing gracing the top. It’s the perfect balance of sweet and tart. I’m sure he knows it’s flawless, but he still smiles wide at my reaction. After last night, I was worried I’d never see a smile like that again.
“I’m glad you like them.”
“Like? Ilikekale. This is in no way a ‘like,’ and you know it.” I take another big bite. A dollop of jam lands on my chest, just above my tank top’s neckline. I flush, looking around for a napkin.
“Here.” He comes around the pass, rag in hand.
But instead of wiping me clean with it, he bends his head and uses his tongue. Heat sparks through me at the feel of his smooth lips against the top of my breast, contrasted with the friction of his beard. My nipples tighten, anticipating his touch. All the rational thoughts flee my mind as he drags down the tank top just far enough to reveal the lacy blue edge of my bra.
“Jack,” I whisper into his hair.
His tongue traces the lace. “I’m sorry.” He dips it into the hollow of my throat. “So fucking sorry I left you alone.”
I pull away far enough to look him in the eyes. They remind me of palm leaves today. There’s a guarded shadow in them, as if he’s bracing himself for whatever I might say.
I cup his jaw, smoothing away a lingering bit of jam with my thumb. “It must have been hard, growing up like that.”
“I haven’t told many people about it.” His voice is quiet, thoughtful. “Here, I didn’t need to. They already knew. Everywhere else... I told your father. That’s it.”
I hold back my surprise. I knew he was close enough with Dad, before everything happened. But I wouldn’t have expected that.
“I’m sorry, too. It wasn’t the right time to bring it up.” My heart aches for him all over again. “We don’t have to talk about it. But if you ever want to... I’m here.”
He tugs on my braid. “Hey, you stole the second half of my apology.”
My lips quirk into a smile. “Oh, yeah?”
“Neither of us ever claimed to have good timing.”
“No.” I laugh slightly. “Our mouths are runaway trains.”
“The offer is the same,” he says, turning back to his tray of half-decorated pop tarts. “When you want to tell me what’s going through your head when we’re together, I’m ready to listen.”
There’s a lump in my throat. I don’t know what to think about the fact he caught on immediately, whereas guys like Ryan never noticed. The fact he wants to know the truth. I wish I knew how to explain this to him. “Teach me how to make the pop tarts.”
To Jack’s credit, he jumps into teacher mode without protest. We work side by side for the better part of an hour. It’s companionable, part of the rhythm we’ve built for ourselves as we’ve gotten comfortable sharing this space. At one point, he stands behind me, his hands guiding mine as we bring the dough together, an echo of the pasta-making lesson. For a heartbeat, it feels like we could do this forever.
“It wasn’t always like this,” I finally make myself say, head bent to concentrate on the task of cutting out uniform rectangles of dough.
“What wasn’t?” he asks.
I glance over my shoulder. He’s at the stove, stirring the cherry jam he’s making for the filling. His fingertips are stained pink from pitting the cherries. I take a moment to admire him: hair curling at his nape, rag hanging from his belt, spoon in his back pocket. Every bit a chef. His ankles are crossed as he leans against the counter, and he’s got a bandage on his thumb. When I asked about it, he said it was courtesy of a rogue raspberry.
“Poppy?”
There’s no point in keeping secrets on a desert island.
“I know I brushed it off,” I say, fiddling with a bit of dough, “butthe comments and messages I get—they do bother me. Even with filters, or limiting DMs, they sneak through.”
Compliments about my face, my body. Insults about the same things. Detailed descriptions of what someone would like to do to me, if we ever met.
“Not really on the Fable account,” I rush to add. “It’s been weird, actually, even though our content keeps going viral—”
