Page 70 of Crease Collision

OSKAR:

OSKAR: Know the Westside Market? I’ll meet you there at 4:30. Then you can come…

OSKAR: Here.

KAI: 4:30 sounds good.

I barely trust myself to type that.

OSKAR: See you then. Du gör mig galen.

It’s embarrassing how long I look at the screen before it gets through that he’s written something in Swedish. I copy and paste it into a translation site.

I drive him crazy?

Does he mean I’m too much?

Or that I drive him wild?

God, please don’t let me be too much.

Fuck.

Reset room. Now.

“What are you making?”

Oskar is already driving me crazy in dark blue jeans that are at least a size too small. I have to force my eyes upward, only to find him staring at my crotch. We’d split up to shop, and now he’s eyeing my basket.

I clear my throat. “If you will look at my other basket, you’ll see I’m making an American classic. Sloppy joes.”

A quite satisfying blush crawls across his cheeks as he raises his head. “Um… It seems I have been… busted, I think is the right word. Sorry about that.”

“No you aren’t.”

He licks his lips and looks down at the grocery basket. “What is that? I see the beef, but this?” He takes the can of sauce and holds it up for inspection.

“Ground beef and sauce on a hamburger bun,” I say. “It’s delicious. All the kids here eat it at school, and I still love it.”

“It does not look so healthy,” he says, putting the can back where he found it. “I am proud of you for your food sin. You cannot make the sauce?”

“I guess it’s possible,” I tell him, “but I never have. This flavor is classic.”

“Okay.” He draws the word out, clearly baiting me.

“What’ve you got, smartass?”

“I will serve you meatballs, a Swedish classic.”

“You mean Swedish meatballs?”

Fuck me. Then kill me.

Hurry.

His low laugh sends a flash of heat across my nape, and he moves closer until our thighs are pressed together.

“That would be correct,” he says.