Page 11 of Your Rule to Break

I open the door with my free hand, the other still holding my gold heels.

“Woah,” Zack admires, pausing outside the door. “That blue… I need something in that color.” His eyes rake over my entire body.

Heat creeps into my cheeks. I wave him in, turning away to hide the blush, and realize putting on my heels is the perfect ploy. I slip my feet in, still needing to secure the straps. Shuffling over to the barstool, one of my go-to spots—I love being in or around a kitchen— I finish putting the heels on.

Immediately, I regret my decision. I can’t quite pull my leg up to secure the straps without showing Zack all my lady business. Which, fake dating or not, no one wants an unannounced full-frontal shot.

Zack stands, hands in his charcoal gray shorts—sporting a delectable inseam—and a patterned button up. I can’t help but roll my eyes because this is the type of shirt that would be all wrong on someone, but on Zack, it’s a perfect fit. Naturally.

Zack runs his hands through his thick hair, floppy and blonde, and walks a couple steps closer.

“Need some help with those?”

Chapter 8

Zack

I don’t know whatit is, but when Emilie’s cheeks flush red like that, it makes my dick twitch. The color spreads across the bridge of her nose, hitting her cheek bones.

For fuck’s sake.

“Please,” she answers, her shoulders relaxing as her back rests on the bar behind her.

Emilie kicks her feet out, the gold straps sticking out behind her foot.

I lightly reach around, realizing each shoe has two straps, much longer than I thought they’d be.

“They wrap around my ankle before buckling on the side.” Emilie’s soft voice makes me look up at her.

She’s wearing that red lipstick, the one that makes her lips look completely fucking kissable. It’s never too much with Emilie; she knows exactly what she’s doing—one of the only reasons I ask her opinion when it comes to clothes.

I lightly take the thin straps in my hands and wrap them around her ankle. My knuckles brush her skin, and it's as soft as I thought it’d be. I hold my breath. The clasp is delicate; I move my head to get a better look.

I’d be lying if I wasn’t thinking of what it’d be like to kiss up these legs. I sneak a look up and see her, lips pursed, leaned just a bit forward to see what I’m doing.

When I successfully manage each strappy heel, Emilie kicks her feet, probably making sure they’re not going to fly off. My breath, which was held hostage in my lungs, finally escapes as soon as I create a little room between us.

“What do you think?” Emilie stands, doing a quick half turn while kicking up one of the heels. “Not too boring?”

Ha! Boring is never a word I’d use to describe her.

“Definitely not boring.” I bite my lip, taking her in from the red hair pulled back down to the tip of the heels. “You’re really something.”

Emilie smirks and grabs her white bag from the table. I offer her my hand, fake boyfriend things and all, and she shakes her head before taking it.

The Trivium Food Companyis my favorite kind of place: good food, better drinks, and an eclectic menu. Serving small plates only, most of their food spins a classic on its head.

“Up next, we have a soup designed to make you think of dipping your french fries into vanilla ice cream.” Our server, Tori, lifts the top of a dish and steam escapes. She reaches into a small sack-bag, kind of like what you’d get at elementary school for a field trip, and pull out a small container of fries, before laying them out—just so—on the plate.

“Dip the fries in the soup, at least for the first bite.” Tori sets down two tiny spoons for Emilie and me. “Enjoy!” She claps her hands, almost every inch covered in tattoos, and heads back to the kitchen.

I take a deep breath and it oddly smells like sweet vanilla, and of course, salty potatoes.

“These are like, ridiculously thin. Perfectly straight. ” Emilie picks up a fry, examining it. Sitting across from me in a booth for two, she takes the fry, dips it into the soup, and pops it into her mouth—careful not to drip anything on her dress.

“MMMMMohmygod,” Emilie moans, closing her eyes. I’m surprised I can hear her because most openings like this are chaotic and obnoxious. Seems like Trivium has it figured out.

Wanting to see what all the fuss is about, I dip my own fry into the soup before putting it in my mouth. It’s bizarre because it’s exactly as they’ve described: vanilla ice cream, but soup? Hot vanilla ice cream? It feels like it shouldn’t work but it does, and it’s fucking fantastic.