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“Of course I am. You made it for me.” He brings the fork to his mouth, and I bury my face in my hands, too mortified to watch. “Mm…”
Peeking through my fingers, I can’t help chuckling as he chews the clump of charcoal, trying not to choke on it. “Okay, you did your good deed for the day. You can put the fork down now.”
“Why would I do that? It’s delicious.” He goes back for a second bite, this time stabbing the slimy part.
“Don’t eat that!” I lunge toward him, trying to swat it out of his hand before he gets food poisoning.
We tussle over the utensil until he’s backed me against the counter, his hand clasping my wrist. His face is mere inches from mine, our breath ragged.
In that moment, every thought, every well-rehearsed reason why we can’t be together, escapes my mind and is replaced by a visceral need to lean in closer, to press my lips to his. The need is so intense, so all-consuming, fear suddenly grips me. Fear of my desire, of the unknown, of the consequences of surrendering to a reckless impulse.
Twisting my wrist out of his grasp, I duck beneath his arm, fleeing the situation along with my own muddled emotions.
“Pizza?” I grab my phone and search for a delivery option, grateful for the excuse to avoid his questioning gaze.
“Sure.” It’s remarkable how one syllable can convey so much disappointment and confusion.
My vision glazes over as I scroll through the search results, not registering a single word. I hear the smooth glide of a drawer opening, followed by a rustling sound, then Ethan hands me an old-fashioned paper menu. “Thanks.” I still can’t bring myself to look at him.
“Tell me which kind you want, and I’ll place the order. The number’s programmed in my phone.”
“Do you still like thick crust?” I ask, dragging my finger down the list of toppings, struggling to concentrate. I can still feel his touch, the warmth of his breath, the white-hot glint in his eyes that made every inch of my skin blaze.
“When I’m visiting my folks back home. But in New York, I stick with the thin, crispy style crust. They say there’s something in the city’s water that gives it a special flavor. Minerals, I guess.”
He’s gallantly trying to lighten the mood, and the least I can do is help him out. I lift my gaze, attempting a breezy smile. Although, there’s a good chance it looks slightly crazed, since I can’t quite get my lips to cooperate. “I’ll let you order, then. Whatever you usually get.”
“Sounds good.”
Twenty-five minutes later—after a joint effort to restore the desecrated kitchen to its former luster—Ethan lifts the cardboard lid of the pizza box, releasing a ribbon of aromatic steam. The sauce is light and silky, the cheese slightly golden, the spices fresh and fragrant. My stomach growls as he sets an enormous slice on my plate. “Okay, you have to admit this looks better than my burnt frittata,” I say, poking fun at myself.
“What do you mean? That frittata was a work of art. Totally worth the chipped tooth.”
He flashes his adorably slanted smile, and the world rights itself again. Maybe we can salvage the evening after all.
As if on cue, Brynn trudges through the front door, her expression weary as she removes her coat and scarf.
Ethan and I exchange a glance, and as if he can read my mind, he slides two slices of pizza onto a plate and slips away to his room, giving us time alone.
“Rough day?” I ask while Brynn pours herself a glass of water.
“It was okay.”
I select a prime slice of pizza for her, then tap the barstool next to me. “Sit. Eat. Let’s talk.”
She sighs heavily but relents.
“What happened between you and Oliver?” I decide the direct approach is best.
“Nothing, really,” she says with a shrug. “I just decided I wanted to stay friends.” She folds her pizza in half and takes a bite. Her eyes close, and for a moment, some of the strain in her features melts away.
“We’ll come back to that. But what happened that prompted that decision?” I press, remembering how, even as kids, she’d circle around a sensitive topic to avoid hitting the most tender spot.
“While we were skating, there was this perfect moment,” she says, after a reflective pause. “The crisp air, the sparkling lights, that really pretty Etta James song… ‘At Last,’ I think it’s called. It was like her words were just for us. Anyway, it was the kind of moment that makes you hold your breath and wish it would never end.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, not following her train of thought. “And that’s a bad thing?” There had to be more to the story.
She stares down at her pizza as if she’s trying to memorize the exact number of basil leaves. “Oliver squeezed my hand and said, ‘This is the kind of first date you tell your kids about.’”
