Page 58 of Playing for Keeps

“Don’t push your luck,” she warned, but she was laughing now. Her voice was low and warm, cutting through the noise of the restaurant.

By the end of the main course, we were already leaning across the table more than sitting back in our seats, laughing at some dumb story I was telling about Will setting off the smoke alarm at two in the morning with what he swore were pancakes. Emma had tears in her eyes from laughing, and her hand was lightly resting next to mine on the table.

The waiter came to take our dessert order. Before I could answer, he looked at me and asked, “Tiramisu again?”

The words slipped out before he seemed to realize what he had said. His expression froze, mortified.

Emma blinked, then slowly turned to me. For a second, I couldn’t read her expression. Then the grin appeared, bright and teasing. “Again?” she said, dragging the word out with unmistakable delight. “So how many times have you been here, exactly?”

The waiter was already backpedaling. “Excuse me, I’ll, uh, give you a minute,” he stammered, retreating faster than dignity allowed.

Emma was laughing now, her head tipped back. “Oh, this is too good. You have a usual dessert here? That’s commitment.”

I groaned. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

“Really?”

“I just…” I ran a hand over my face, grinning despite myself. “They have excellent food here, that’s all.”

She smirked. “So good you had to test it multiple times?”

“Something like that,” I said, trying not to laugh.

Her amusement softened. “Relax, Max. I’m not offended.”

When the waiter returned, still looking sheepish, I quickly said, “I’ll try something new this time: the chocolate tart.”

Emma handed back her menu. “Ice cream,” she said decisively.

He smiled, clearly relieved to move on. “Any particular flavour?”

“Vanilla, please.”

I stared at her. “Ice cream? It’s freezing outside.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed with my tone. “Ice cream is not seasonal, Max. Ice cream is eternal.”

I snorted. “That sounded like a manifesto.”

“It is. Some people fight for justice, some people fight for freedom. I fight for the right to eat ice cream whenever I want, no matter the weather.”

I grinned, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Wait until you see how good it looks. You’ll be jealous.”

When the desserts came, I was still grinning: her ridiculous little bowl of vanilla ice cream, with two flawless scoops shining pale against the dish, and my chocolate tart, dusted with cocoa.

Sure enough, I caught myself glancing at hers more than once. Emma noticed it immediately, because of course she did. Her eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Do you want to try it?”

The offer was casual, but when her spoon dipped into the scoop and she raised it to her lips first, something in my brain short-circuited. The room tilted for a second when I saw the spoon cross her mouth and her tongue flicking against the edge. Christ. I wanted a taste, all right, but not of the ice cream. I tried to school my face, but she saw the pause and the hitch in my breath.

“You do want some.”

I gave in, leaning forward, lowering my voice. “Yeah. I do.”

She dipped the spoon again and held it across the table, her eyes glinting like she knew exactly what she was doing. I leaned forward and took the bite straight from her spoon. I let the ice cream slowly melt on my tongue. Sweet, but nothing compared to the way she looked at me when I swallowed and let a sound escape that was far from innocent.

“Told you,” she said smugly, reclaiming the spoon and scooping up another bite for herself.