Page 59 of Based on You

"I don't need your opinion," she retorted. "And it's amazing." She took another huge bite to prove her point.

The cheese pull was undeniably excellent. I reached forward across the counter and snatched the hot slice right out of her hand.

Olivia's outraged shriek was immediate and full-volume, and she sprinted around the island in two seconds flat.

I was faster. I made it to the other side of the kitchen island, holding the stolen slice above my head, which was grossly unfair by any reasonable height standard.

"Give it back!" she demanded, jumping for it.

"It's not even good," I lied, taking a huge bite. It was, in fact, very good. "See? Totally not good."

"You're eating it!"

"Strictly for scientific purposes."

She lunged. I moved out of the way. She darted the wrong way around the island, and I went the right way, and for thirty chaotic seconds the kitchen devolved into something that would have alarmed any person who walked in without context.

"Violet!" Olivia yelled from across the island. "Do something!"

"I'm staying neutral," Violet declared from the stool where she'd sat down to watch the show with her own slice, her chin propped in her hand.

Olivia eventually got to me, mostly because she was faster than I'd accounted for, and caught my arm. She retrieved what was left of the mangled slice, only about a third of it, and held it to her chest in triumph.

"I can't believe you," she panted.

"It was exceptionally good," I admitted. "I concede."

"I know it was good."

We ate the rest of it together at the island, all four of us. Olivia explained at length why her aggressive cheese-volume decision had been structurally correct, the delicious evidence backing her up. She was right. I told her so. She sat back with her chin tilted up in victory and moved on to the next topic.

The afternoon wound down. Olivia retreated upstairs to her room. Marta packed up and went home for the day. Violet and I cleaned up the last of the kitchen disaster together, and then she said she was going to lie down. I followed her upstairs.

She pushed the door to my bedroom open and turned to face me. "I'm so tired."

"I know."

"I'm sore." She looked at me pointedly. "From last night."

"I know."

She stared at me a long moment, searching my face. "I really hope you're not in here thinking⁠—"

"I'm not with you only for that."

She kept staring, unconvinced. "Simon. Is sex actually in the picture?"

I looked at her steady, refusing to lie. "Yes."

"Then why are you⁠—"

"Because you told me that true love requires lust."

We both went still. Frozen still.

She stared at me in shock. "What did you just say?"

I'd said it. It was out there now, and there was no useful way to walk it back. "I think that's a serious conversation we need to have. Just… not tonight."