Page 30 of Never Let Go

With surprisingly confident movements, he guided my hand slightly to the right and then down, and I touched something squishy with the side of my hand. “How did you know where the cakes were?”

“I should probably tell you that it’s because I know everything, but it’s not that. I asked the waiter and then had a feel around just before you got here.”

I laughed. “Thanks for the honesty.”

Reluctantly letting go of his hand, I closed my fingers around a little square of cake and brought it to my mouth, almost moaning out loud as the soft, buttery goodness melted in my mouth. “Oh, my god. That’s amazing.”

“What did you get?” he asked a second later. “I got something lemony and it was pretty good too.”

“I got vanilla, but now I’m curious about the lemony one.” As luck would have it, that was what I got next. He was right. It really was good.

“My favorite so far is the dark chocolate,” he said after a few moments. “That’s, like, wow. I’m definitely coming back here for that one. Want to come with me?”

I chuckled around a square of the same dark chocolate, having to admit that it really was like a mouth-gasm. “For sure, but you’re assuming we’re going to make it to the fifth date and then come back here after, right? Or did you mean you were going to request that our next date be here as well?”

“Both,” he said after a beat. “Wow, that’s really fucking good. Okay, but enough about the cakes. How was your day?”

“Fine,” I said. “It kind of went slow because I was looking forward to this so much, but nothing really exciting happened. You?”

“Same,” he said, sounding a little surprised for some reason. “We covered the basics last time, so let’s dig a little bit deeper tonight.”

“I’m up for it if you are. What do you want to know?”

He hummed softly before he spoke again. “Have you ever baked a cake?”

I laughed. “That’s digging deeper?”

“Sure it is. We’re at the dessert restaurant, and so far, we have the same favorites. I’m usually not a fan of desserts, but if my mom makes them, I’m there for it.”

“Your mom bakes?” I smiled in the dark, my chest feeling all aflutter again. “So does mine, and I have baked a cake. With her, actually. You?”

“Same, but after we tried it once, she told me to leave the baking to her and to help her with the cooking instead if I wanted to be in the kitchen.”

I groaned. “What happened?”

“I, uh, I may have misread the recipe. In my defense, I was twelve at the time, but I mixed up the measurements for salt and sugar and I may also have added eight cups of oil because I lost count and started over again.”

“Eight cups of oil?” I blinked hard before I laughed again. “That must’ve been a terrible cake.”

“It was, but my mom said we couldn’t call it a cake.” He chuckled. “I’m assuming your attempt with your mom went better?”

“Well, yeah, but she was really patient with me. She still is. Every time I go over there, we cook dinner together and I’m still learning.”

“I like that. I’m still learning too, but I think my mom is close to the point of giving up. The only reason she’s still trying is because she says I can’t live on takeout.”

“She’s probably right. Don’t get me wrong. I love takeout as much as the next person, but there’s nothing like a homecooked meal. It’s definitely better for your heart, too.”

“Depends on what you order,” he reasoned. “I try to stick to the healthier options, but I’m a real sucker for a pizza.”

“Me too.” I groaned. “Before I signed up for this, I practically inhaled a large pizza all on my own.”

“I like that,” he said frankly. “At least you actually eat. It sucks to be out with someone and feel like you’re pigging out because you’re just eating the plate of food you’re paying for.”

I chuckled. “You’ll never have that problem with me. If I order food, I eat it. I don’t play with it and I won’t waste it. My mom always told me wasting food should be a crime.”

“I feel the same way,” he said. “Your mom sounds a lot like mine, actually. She made my brother and I sit at the dinner table until we’d eaten every last scrap. She always said that she hadn’t dished up or made too much and that she knew we had space. We just needed to eat our food and then not ask for a snack later on.”

I smiled. “Our moms really are similar, then. That must be why we get along so well.”