When in Rome(48)

“Oh yes, I’m just beaming with pride.” Her voice is all sarcasm, as she gives up her chase and sinks down onto a barstool. She puts her hand in her hair and tosses it over her head, making it look even more alluring somehow. “Are they really that bad?”

“Like sand at the beach that a dog has peed on.”

“Wow,” she says with an incredulous look. “Fine. I guess you’ll just have to teach me then.” She perks up like maybe I won’t remember I already told her no. Thing is, I could teach her the recipe. It’s not actually some great secret I want to take to my grave like I let her believe the other day. But I sort of like the playfulness added to the air by me keeping it from her. I have something she wants but can’t have. Seems only fair since she’s quickly becoming the someone I want but also can’t have.

“Nope. I already told you it’s a secret.” I pull down a mug and pour a cup of the coffee she made, hoping to all the coffee gods that it doesn’t taste anything like her pancakes.

“I’ll figure it out. How hard can pancakes be to perfect?”

I eye her charred stack. “For the average person, or for you?”

She scrunches her nose and then lobs the kitchen towel at my head. The towel lands elegantly on my shoulder.

“I’m wounded,” I say dryly as I lift the mug to my lips and take a hesitant sip. It’s good. Really good, actually. “Huh.” I raise the mug in silent cheers. “You make shit pancakes but your coffee is great. So that’s something.”

Her eyes twinkle with amusement. If she had anything else near her, I know it would get chucked at my head, too. Instead, she has to settle for words, and somehow I know I’m not going to like whatever she’s about to say. Amelia tilts her head, unconsciously showing off the graceful curve of her exposed neck. “Well, according to you, I’m also soooo pretty.”

I groan and roll my eyes away from her. “C’mon, don’t bring that up. I was drunk.” I was hoping she wouldn’t mention it—would just let us both go through the day pretending it never happened. Guess my hope was misplaced.

“You expect me to not bring up what happened last night?” She laughs like that’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard, and she then glances over her shoulder. “You begged to kiss me.”

I hold her taunting gaze and hmm lightly. Another leisurely sip, and I lean back against the countertop. “Begged? Interesting. That’s not quite how I remember it.”

Her smile falters and I could swear she holds her breath. You want to play, Amelia, let’s play.

“Well, you were the drunk one so I’m not sure how reliable your memory can be.”

“You came out of the bathroom. Wearing those pj’s. Wrapped your arms around me when I stumbled, guided me to the couch where I lay down on my stomach. You left me to go find bandages and when you asked where my first aid kit was I told you I’m not a mom but Band-Aids are in the bathroom.” I take a step forward, set my coffee mug on the kitchen island where she’s sitting. I lean on my forearms. “And then…when you came back from the bathroom, and before you doctored up my hand, I remember privately thinking how much you smelled exactly like my cologne.”

I know my speculation is completely accurate because Amelia’s eyes are wide as saucers and she’s almost holding her breath. Her cheeks are strawberries. I want to run my thumb across them. Instead, I throw my last memory on the table like a gauntlet. “And after I asked if I could kiss you, just one more time…” I let the words dangle, waiting to see if she’s brave enough to make the last leap or if I’ll have to push her.

The Amelia I first met would have made an excuse right now and probably slipped out of the room to avoid an uncomfortable situation. Or she would have laughed it off and blamed the tender forehead kiss on how tired she was or something. The new Amelia is dangerous. She sits forward—so close our mouths could touch if I tipped forward—and she controls that embarrassed strawberry blush into a seductive sweep of color as delicious looking as her full raspberry lips.

And then she grins. “…I kissed your forehead.” She pauses to stare at my mouth, a memory sparking in her eyes. She looks sharply up at me. “Because I wanted to kiss your mouth but knew you were too drunk.”

Mouth. Eyes. Mouth. Eyes. Mouth. Eyes. That’s the pattern of my gaze. The urge of my body is chanting, Do it! Kiss her. I already know it would be so good. And now it’s my turn to squirm. I lightly clear my throat and scratch the side of my neck, standing back up and hearing alarm bells sound in my head. I shouldn’t be tempting whatever this is. There’s no future for us—and I’m not into casual. Nothing has changed. I still have to stay in this town, and she still has to go eventually. So just knock it off, Noah.

“I’m sorry I asked last night. Shouldn’t have because I’m still not looking for anything romantic.” Lies.

For a fraction of a second, Amelia really does look wounded. Her eyebrows twitch into the beginnings of a frown. But she wipes it away quickly and recovers. “Who said anything about romance? It was just a forehead kiss, Noah. Plain and simple. Innocent at best. And you would have never asked me if you were sober—so it’s fine.”

My instinct is to bat that placative shit out of the park, but I can tell she’s saying it as a mercy to me, so I let it land between us and become the barrier it was intended to be. I wish it didn’t make me like her more. Respect her more.