shade of red that rivals the cherry-red pillared candles in the middle of the table.
Did I seriously just say that out loud?
I avoid everyone’s eyes and push my food around my plate with the tines of my fork, occasionally stabbing at a broccoli floret. It feels like forever before anyone speaks again—even though it’s probably only been less than a minute. This, if you ask me, is far too long to think about the double meaning behind my words…not that you really have to think to get it.
Greyston clears his throat and starts talking about sports again, easily distracting my father. I chance a look across the table to find my mother smiling sympathetically at me. “It’ll be okay,” she mouths, and I shake my head in disagreement.
I don’t speak for the rest of the meal—even when someone directs a question my way. I’m always sure to put a forkful of food into my mouth or take a drink, limiting my responses to a headshake or a nod, and, occasionally, an agreeing hum.
With dinner finally out of the way, my mom brings out a homemade apple pie. Greyston looks like he’s about to drool a little before telling my mom that apple pie is his absolute favorite.
“Oh, Greyston,” she says humbly. “You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m really not,” he assures her, accepting the plate she’s holding out to him.
She finishes serving the pie before taking her seat, and is just about to take her first bite when she looks like she’s forgotten something. “Juliette, honey, would you be a dear and grab the whipped cream? I didn’t have the chance to whip it myself, so just grab the can out of the fridge door.”
“Yeah, sure,” I agree, pushing my chair from the table and heading for the kitchen. I take the time away to give myself a stern talking-to about sticking my foot in my mouth. When I’m sure I can control myself for another hour or so, I return to the table and offer the whipping cream to Greyston first.
It would be an outright lie to say that watching him accidentally get a bit on the tip of his index finger doesn’t do unspeakable things to my body. God. I’m biting the inside of my cheek to keep from making an embarrassing noise—and crossing my legs beneath the table to quell the dull tingle that has started to spread between them—when he licks his delicious-looking digit clean.
I’d have traded my soul to wrap my own lips around his finger…
“Juliette?”
Blinking, I let my eyes wander from his fingers to his eyes. It’s then that I realize he’s offering me the whipped cream, and I’m staring like an attention-starved puppy. Apparently, I don’t need to speak to embarrass myself completely.
“Sorry. Thanks.” I take the canister from him and shake it before turning it toward my plate. My hands tremble as I push on the nozzle, causing the whipped cream to spray somewhat messily. I, too, have gotten whipped cream on a couple of my fingers, so I quickly lick them clean and cut a huge bite of my pie with my fork to keep anyone from asking me a question.
To my left, Greyston’s fork clangs on his plate, and I can see through my periphery that he’s just picking it back up.
After dessert, I take everyone’s plates and load them into the dishwasher. I’m just putting the last fork into the basket when a deep voice startles me.
“Are you sure you want to leave this behind? Your mom is a pretty amazing cook,” Greyston says. “I have half a mind to ask if I can move in here.”
I laugh nervously, closing the dishwasher and turning it on. “Believe me, less than a week in this house and you’ll be Googling lobotomies or the best household chemical combination to make industrial-strength brain-bleach.” Greyston eyes me curiously. “Just trust me. You don’t want to know.”
Greyston smiles, his blue eyes locking with mine. “Well, I just hope you realize I’m not nearly as good a cook as she seems to be. I’d hate to disappoint you.” This time, it’s
Did I seriously just say that out loud?
I avoid everyone’s eyes and push my food around my plate with the tines of my fork, occasionally stabbing at a broccoli floret. It feels like forever before anyone speaks again—even though it’s probably only been less than a minute. This, if you ask me, is far too long to think about the double meaning behind my words…not that you really have to think to get it.
Greyston clears his throat and starts talking about sports again, easily distracting my father. I chance a look across the table to find my mother smiling sympathetically at me. “It’ll be okay,” she mouths, and I shake my head in disagreement.
I don’t speak for the rest of the meal—even when someone directs a question my way. I’m always sure to put a forkful of food into my mouth or take a drink, limiting my responses to a headshake or a nod, and, occasionally, an agreeing hum.
With dinner finally out of the way, my mom brings out a homemade apple pie. Greyston looks like he’s about to drool a little before telling my mom that apple pie is his absolute favorite.
“Oh, Greyston,” she says humbly. “You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m really not,” he assures her, accepting the plate she’s holding out to him.
She finishes serving the pie before taking her seat, and is just about to take her first bite when she looks like she’s forgotten something. “Juliette, honey, would you be a dear and grab the whipped cream? I didn’t have the chance to whip it myself, so just grab the can out of the fridge door.”
“Yeah, sure,” I agree, pushing my chair from the table and heading for the kitchen. I take the time away to give myself a stern talking-to about sticking my foot in my mouth. When I’m sure I can control myself for another hour or so, I return to the table and offer the whipping cream to Greyston first.
It would be an outright lie to say that watching him accidentally get a bit on the tip of his index finger doesn’t do unspeakable things to my body. God. I’m biting the inside of my cheek to keep from making an embarrassing noise—and crossing my legs beneath the table to quell the dull tingle that has started to spread between them—when he licks his delicious-looking digit clean.
I’d have traded my soul to wrap my own lips around his finger…
“Juliette?”
Blinking, I let my eyes wander from his fingers to his eyes. It’s then that I realize he’s offering me the whipped cream, and I’m staring like an attention-starved puppy. Apparently, I don’t need to speak to embarrass myself completely.
“Sorry. Thanks.” I take the canister from him and shake it before turning it toward my plate. My hands tremble as I push on the nozzle, causing the whipped cream to spray somewhat messily. I, too, have gotten whipped cream on a couple of my fingers, so I quickly lick them clean and cut a huge bite of my pie with my fork to keep anyone from asking me a question.
To my left, Greyston’s fork clangs on his plate, and I can see through my periphery that he’s just picking it back up.
After dessert, I take everyone’s plates and load them into the dishwasher. I’m just putting the last fork into the basket when a deep voice startles me.
“Are you sure you want to leave this behind? Your mom is a pretty amazing cook,” Greyston says. “I have half a mind to ask if I can move in here.”
I laugh nervously, closing the dishwasher and turning it on. “Believe me, less than a week in this house and you’ll be Googling lobotomies or the best household chemical combination to make industrial-strength brain-bleach.” Greyston eyes me curiously. “Just trust me. You don’t want to know.”
Greyston smiles, his blue eyes locking with mine. “Well, I just hope you realize I’m not nearly as good a cook as she seems to be. I’d hate to disappoint you.” This time, it’s
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