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“Marshmallow?” I raise a brow while trying not to cry over his sheer chiseled, golden firelight illuminated, godly wonder. “They might look burned on the outside, but the middle parts are gooey and warm and delicious.”
“Alright. If you say that they’re good.”
I realize I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do, but nothing is going to stop me. I slide a marshmallow off the fork, but instead of handing it over, I edge closer and bring it to Leon’s mouth. His lips part for me, and since the marshmallow is gooey and melting all over my fingers, he makes quick work of it, which means he takes my fingers into his mouth. His tongue strokes over them, and he can’t keep a sound of pleasure from escaping him. I quickly jerk my hand back even though I want to keep it in his mouth forever. I nearly die on the spot.
Yup. Right in front of my parents.
“You’re right,” Leon says, his eyes twinkling with dark, dark promise. He knows exactly what he does to me. “It was delicious.” It. Not the marshmallow. It. Meaning he could be talking about me. Meaning, of course, he’s talking about me.
I drop down into my chair before my legs can give out. I eat two marshmallows and pass another one over to Leon, then another, and another, until they’re gone.
“Mom, Dad, do you want coffee?” It seems like a good thing to do to occupy my hands with. And my attention. I need a distraction before I combust.
“Yes, please,” my mom says.
“Coffee would be great, especially for the drive home.”
“You could stay, you know.”
My parents share looks that say they’re totally thinking about what may or may not have gone on in the bedroom they would sleep in. I don’t look at Leon. I pour coffee instead. And I’m glad it’s dark because my cheeks are burning.
I throw a few more logs on the fire and sit back down. My mom claps her hands together so suddenly that she nearly flings her mug to the ground. “I know! We should play that game you and your brother loved as kids so much! You all were always playing it.”
“Uhh, we have a closet full of games. And it’s getting late.”
“Oh, come on,” Mom urges. “When’s the last time we were all here like this together?” I’m not sure why she says all here because it’s just me out of the rest of my family, but that’s okay. She’s excited, and I love my mom.
“Never because that arsehole of a boss of yours never lets you have time off, that’s when,” Dad says unceremoniously.
I nearly drop dead out of my seat. I have never been so embarrassed in my life. “Dad!” I hiss as a warning.
“I hardly get to see my own daughter anymore,” he goes on.
“You see me plenty,” I argue, trying to give him that side-eye look that says,please, for the love of god, drop this.
Yeah, not happening. “Not out here, I don’t. Game night used to be a tradition.”
“It’s getting late, and we just started the fire. It’s nice out here. I don’t want to go inside. And I’ve never called my boss an arsehole.” I give Leon a wicked side-eye, and I can tell he loves this. “I never even thought that. Why does everyone keep saying that? Do I have to explain the holiday thingagain?”
“If you don’t want to go inside, that’s fine. We could play a game out here,” Mom says. She’s not giving up on her idea. “That one that you guys loved. It’s not a board game.”
Can this get any worse?“Two truths and a lie?” Oh my god, please don’t let my mom be talking about two truths and a lie.
“No! The other one. The one where you do the truth and the dares. Truth or dare! That’s it!”
Dear god in heaven, it just got worse.
“I think that’s a great idea,” Leon says. I gape at him and mouth the word traitor, but he just grins and ignores me.
“Okay, why don’t you go first, Mom.” Maybe if I give her something ridiculous enough to do, she’ll give up on the idea, and we won’t have to play this horrible game. “Truth or dare?”
My mom ruffles her hair, way too excited, and sets her coffee on the ground. “I’m feeling quite daring. Make it a good one. Is that bad? Truth just sounds so dangerous.”
“I dare you to make a perfect bush pie because I suck at making them, and I’m hungry now. Fish and salad only go so far, and I ruined the s’mores.” Also, if my mom is busy getting the bush pie makers, then maybe we won’t have to continue this terrible game.
“That’s cheating,” my mom insists.
“I know it is. I’m sorry.”
