Page 51 of For the Record
“No,” he snarled against me with one more squeeze on my hip. Then he dropped his hands into fists by his sides before taking a step back from me. Both of our chests heaved, my lipstick smeared, and his shirt a disheveled mess, wrinkling at the opened collar. His brows furrowed in this deep scowl that was similar to that of a toddler who had been robbed of his favorite toy. I would normally have laughed at the look, but something about the darkness in his eyes as he bit his lips made all humor rush out of me.
Crew stopped at a halt at the top of the stairs.
“Oh, hey guys.” He squatted down to the makeup bag I’d dropped a couple of feet away. “Is this for Layla? Calla is screaming at me to bring it down there.”
I nodded, keeping my eyes locked on Adam. “Yeah, I was just”—I coughed a bit—“heading down there with it.”
Crew looked at the bag and back at Adam, who was still staring at some space between my lips and this ridiculously tight dress.
“Adam, you good?” he asked with this touch of innocence that only Crew could have toward this thick tension in the hallway.
Adam dipped his chin in a yes, but he still hadn’t looked over to his younger brother.
“Oh…did you guys have the shrimp? I told Luke it was going to make someone sick. I think there’s some Imodium downstairs if you need it.”
Just as briskly as he came in, Crew padded off down the stairs with the touch-up bag in hand, leaving only the two of us.
We could kiss again. Probably end up in the spare room a few feet from us. But where would that leave us? Going from where we were—comfortable, content, and carefree—to entirely unknown territory that we both knew we couldn’t head toward. Wrong timing. That was all this was. I couldn’t have anything serious right now. I was making every attempt possible to keep the store open and juggling my dad’s mental health along with my own. Adam was off traveling the world for work, leaving for months at a time and coming back as though he hadn’t missed a day with me. It wasn’t right for either of us.
Adam’s stare left mine, now hyper-focused on the floorboards between us. My fingers reached to adjust my dress. “We, um, shouldn’t…” I trailed off, thankful to see him nod in agreement before I could finish my sentence.
It was stupid to be disappointed in my own decision. Ridiculous that I couldn’t jump us back in time to the last night we had together. But at that point, what good could it do for either of us other than give us simple temporary bliss? He deserved better than that, and I did too.
I turned on my heel, lifting a hand to my hair in an attempt to smooth the frayed edges of my updo. Layla’s wedding. My best friend’s wedding reception. That was where I needed to be. Not making out with her brother-in-law upstairs.
“Do me a favor?” The rumble of his question stopped me at the stairwell.
I looked over my shoulder at him, just as disheveled as when my lips had left his. “Yeah?”
“Don’t wear that dress again.”
Currently playing: Time Of The Season by The Zombies
***
Pasta-making was too sensual.
I underestimated how much so when Rachel had texted me earlier with a picture of my countertop covered in flour, eggs, and some giant machine that looked like a medieval torture device. She claimed she’d borrowed it from Crew’s house. Said that it was supposed to help speed up the process. Not fast enough, apparently, because I had been watching her fingers pull and flex into the dough for ten minutes now, and each movement stirred me up.
She started with this giant bowl of flour, then dumped it onto the counter and made a big hole in the middle. I kept my mouth shut, despite the fact that every inch of my instinct pressured me to grab a rag and wipe the entire thing into the trash. But she was smiling, the kind of smile that made her eyes crinkle at the corners, so I figured I would stand back and watch.
“You could help, you know.” She looked at me across the island with that wolfish smirk.
I smiled back, and for the first time in a really long time, I felt it to my core. Rachel in my kitchen, in my T-shirt—that she’d put on without even asking, like she knew it was enough to drive me crazy so she didn’t bother questioning it. This feeling belonged solely to her. And where I had spent years avoiding it, I was going to rest in it today.
With what seemed like twenty eggs in her flour bowl, she grabbed a fork and began whisking the two together, occasionally looking up to watch the YouTube video she had playing on her phone propped against the bag of flour. The more she mixed the ingredients, the tighter the ball of dough got.
Her arms shook as she kept folding it, layer by layer, that vein in her temple popping out the longer she had to do it. She grunted, standing on the tips of her toes to push the dough over again and again.
I walked to the other side and stood next to her, my shoulder bumping into hers. “Let me.”
“Yeah, put some of those man muscles to work.” She happily walked away, taking a seat at the barstool closest to me.
I began folding the dough the same way the Italian guy on her phone had, pressing down, bringing it over, and pulling it back over, repeating the process again and again. The dough formed into a tight ball, the consistency similar to the yellow ball in the video.
I picked it up and set it down with a satisfying smack to the flour-dusted countertop, looking over at Rachel to see her staring directly at my arms, eyes widened in this distant gaze and mouth hanging open. A child looking through a candy store window from outside.
I wasn’t complaining. God knew how many times she’d caught me staring at her in those ridiculously tiny skirts that I was convinced she bought solely to get under my skin.