“That’s how you know you’re mafia. When someone says you’re bad at lying or killing, you actually get upset and feel the need to prove yourself.”
I smirked. “Fine, you drive like hell. Blind grandmas with blue hair drive better than you do. A horny tom cat who couldn’t reach the pedals would be a better choice.”
Val grabbed the bags from the back seat. “He’s horny why?”
“All tom cats are horny.” I shrugged. How did that slip? Because I was pent up with aggression toward her, and all the wrong kind of aggression, the kind that had me thinking about stupid shit, like chocolate chips.
And them melting on different parts of her body.
A wave of heat boiled beneath the surface of my skin, sizzling, warning me that I was in danger of seducing her again. I gulped, the need to run was so strong, so intense that I nearly doubled over.
My body’s physical reaction was that terrifying.
Forget guns.
War.
Blood.
Torture.
Dismemberment.
Val. Was. Terrifying.
Fingers shaking, I grabbed the last bag and stood as she walked briskly into the house.
I stared.
At the house.
My fingers clenching the plastic bag. I gave myself a few seconds to just breathe without the choking sensation of her nearness taking over. Because at times, that’s what it felt like, as if she was everywhere, and I couldn’t escape her, and the more I felt her, the more I was driven to want to be near her.
Running. It sounded easier than walking into that house.
Running. It would always be easier.
If I ran, would she get over it? At this point, my attachment felt stronger than hers, but I had no idea of knowing. All I knew is that I had made her a blood oath, a promise, and it was one of the hardest things I’d done, because I wanted to do the opposite.
I wanted to be the liar.
The one who betrayed her again.
Because easy had swiftly turned into comfort. And I was so damn sick of feeling discontent.
Over Andi.
Over my changing feelings toward Val.
Co-exist. That’s what Val had said. By taking a step toward my house, by going into my kitchen, I wasn’t pushing Andi out.
I was simply… letting Val in.
With a deep breath, I walked in through the still-open door and slammed it behind me then made my way into the kitchen where Val was already pulling out a shit load of stuff I’d never once in my life used.
From measuring cups.
To a bad ass pink mixer I don’t remember buying.
To cookie cutters that were in the shapes of guns. Huh, who knew?
“Where did all of this come from?”
Val froze, her body hovering over the sink and she washed her hands. “The store.” She turned off the water and grabbed a towel.
“The store.” I nodded slowly. “Could have guessed that. Did you buy it?”
“Maybe?” Her face scrunched up and then her face turned threatening, I took a step back. “Look.” She pointed her finger in my direction. “You wouldn’t even talk to me. I almost starved to death! Once my credit card came, I went… shopping.”
“Let me get this straight.” I ignored the starving dig since it made me feel like shit. “You just turned twenty, and your very first purchase with your shiny new card — the one without a limit — was a pink mixer?”
“And cookie trays,” she grumbled.
“And—” I pointed “—measuring cups?”
She huffed. “I live dangerously.”
“Yes. That was my exact response, in my head, holy shit, she’s a risk taker. How much did that mixer set you back? A hundred dollars, two?”
“Six.” She grinned, while I nearly choked on my tongue.
“For that?” I pointed at the pale pink contraption. “That’s—”
“What?” She cupped her ear. “You don’t want any cookies?”
I glared. “It’s a beautiful… cookie maker.”
“Mixer.”
“Whatever.”
“Okay slave, I’ll bake, you get the super fun job of cleaning up.” Her grin widened as she sidestepped me on the way to the fridge. “And I’m really, really messy.”
I swallowed.
Twice.
And then counted to ten so I wouldn’t tug her backward and kiss every inch of her exposed skin.
“Noted,” I finally coughed out. “Do you need an apron or—”
“Nope.” She thrust the egg carton into the air. “The dirtier, the more fun. Baking should never be clean, Sergio.”
I couldn’t look away from her vibrant face as she started tossing ingredients into the mixing bowl, humming to herself while she bobbed her head around, every few minutes she’d stop and turn in a circle around the kitchen like she was confused.
I had work to do.
Correction, I had work I should do.
Important work.
Life and death work.
Hacking work.
Instead, I stayed glued to the barstool and watched while more and more flour made its way onto her cheeks rather than the mixing bowl. As she dumped in chocolate chips, she started swiping handfuls until it was apparent that at least half of the bag was never going to make it into the dough.
When she turned around, I dipped my finger into the mixing bowl, and swiped a glob of dough and licked. Damn, it was amazing.