Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“Do you want to get together later that day?” I ask, buoyed by that possibility.
“Or,” he begins, taking his time. “I’m hosting it at my home. Do you want to come to my house and cook?”
“You mean, I’ll cook and you’ll watch me?” I tease.
“That’s what we do,” he says, and holy shit. It sounds like we’re a couple. Like we both want to be a couple.
I crave that so badly, but I try to slow down my wild thoughts because something nags at me. If he’s inviting me to spend the whole day, does that mean we need to hide our feelings from his family? I love being at his home where I can relax with him. I don’t want to revert to how I felt the night at the bookstore. “What about your family, though, and you and me?”
A shy grin tugs at his lips. Jason’s never shy. Fuck, that’s cute. “Would you be okay with them knowing about us? I don’t want to hide with them.”
My heart leaps. “I don’t either,” I say, revved up, spurred on by the plans we’re making. “Want to kiss you so badly.”
Jason peers out the back window, weighing the risks. “Parking lot’s empty,” he says.
I grab his face and brush my lips against his. When I break the kiss, he whispers, “Wow.”
“I feel that way every time we kiss.”
“Me too.”
He backs up the car and heads for the exit, passing a sleek green Jaguar. The car is a beauty. I crane my neck to admire it and catch sight of the woman at the wheel.
Chestnut brown hair, sharp cheekbones, looks like money.
That’s . . . Nadia.
My heart ricochets painfully, boomeranging around in my chest like an out-of-control pinball machine.
I lean back in the seat, take a deep breath, and picture my sky tattoo.
Then, I look over at Jason. He’s focused only on driving. He didn’t see her.
Maybe she didn’t see us.
Yeah, that makes sense. These days, we both have all the luck.
34
THE TRUTH ABOUT MASHED POTATOES
Jason
I stop by my dad’s after practice the next day, and we take Snickerdoodle for a walk around Russian Hill.
As he tells me about a new cookie his chief baker wants to roll out—imagine if a chocolate chip cookie and a habanero pepper had a baby—I hunt for just the right moment to tell my dad about Beck.
I don’t want him to be disappointed in me. I also don’t want him to tell me what a bad idea it is to get involved with my rival. I already know, and I hope he doesn’t judge me for it.
I buy some more time by asking him if he has a name for the new recipe. “Cookie Pepper? Papri-cookie? Sweet and Hot Cookie?” I suggest.
He laughs to humor me. “We’re going to call it . . . wait for it . . . the Habanero Cookie.”
“Simple. Direct,” I say as we reach the corner and Snickerdoodle decides to get acquainted with a fire hydrant. “When can I try it?” I ask, still stalling.
“Probably next month. But maybe I can snag an early batch.”
“I’d love that,” I say as the pooch sniffs a tree. I stop delaying. “Dad?”
“Yes?”
“That guy I’m seeing?” I begin, my stomach doing a loop-the-loop.
“Yes? It is going okay?” He sounds so concerned, the way he’s always been for me.
I glance up and down the street like I’m assessing the secondary’s coverage on the field. I lower my voice. “It’s Beck Cafferty,” I admit, a little embarrassed. Not about Beck. About my own poor judgment. About the fact that I didn’t stop it. That I embraced this rule-breaking.
My dad’s eyes widen in surprise before he tactfully rearranges his features. “Oh. And it’s going well?” He’s so diplomatic.
“Yes. I mean, it’s a secret, of course. Right now. But yeah, he’s . . .” I sigh happily. I can’t hide my feelings. “He’s great.” My stomach swoops for a whole new reason. “I really like him.”
My dad smiles. “I can tell.”
“Yeah?” I ask, grinning too.
He rolls his eyes, then stage whispers, “It’s a little obvious.”
“Are you going to tell me this is foolish? That our fans will hate us? That Nadia will be pissed?”
“Do you want me to tell you that?” he asks earnestly.
I shake my head. “No. I tell myself that every day.” Though, lately, not as much. Lately, I keep thinking we can make it work somehow.
He gives me a sad but sympathetic smile. “Then I won’t.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say.
We resume walking the pup, but I’m not done. “I want you to meet him when you come over for Thanksgiving like you usually do. He’ll be there. He’s a great cook.”
“Want me to bring anything?”
That’s all. It’s that easy. He understands. “Just those cookies if you can snag an early batch.”
“To impress your guy?”
“Maybe,” I say as he reads between the lines.