Page 79 of Just One More Thing

I reach across the table and lay my hand over hers. She turns her palm under mine and laces our fingers together.

Just like that.

Ten years, and somehow her hand still knows exactly where to land.

She takes another bite, then looks at me over the spoon. “Next time, I’ll help you with the topping,” she says.

I try not to look too pleased about the words next time. “There’s going to be a next time?”

Her fingers tighten around mine. “You seem like you could use supervision.”

I huff out a laugh. “That so?”

“Absolutely.”

I stand and come around the table. She watches me the whole way. I hold out my hand. She takes it like it was always hers. I pull her up close and don’t let go. “Supervision, huh?” I murmur.

“Strict.” She tips her face up. I kiss her before she can say anything else. Her hand slides from my wrist to the front of my shirt, and the laugh disappears into the kiss.

When we part, she stays close, one hand still fisted in my shirt. “So,” she says, a little breathless, “no fire alarms tonight?”

I glance toward the kitchen. “My cooking is done. We’re safe.”

“Good.”

She lifts her head just enough to look at me.

“Then kiss me again.”

CHAPTER 22

EMORY

I’m standing outside Holey Moley, waiting for my date, shifting my weight like I had too many sweet teas.

I still get a small, embarrassing thrill calling Jake Wheeler my date. I’m not labeling anything. Couple, dating, emotionally complicated. I’m also not spiraling about it.

Look at me. Emotional evolution.

It’s the last summer movie night on The Green. They’re playingGrease.

I’ve promised myself I will not sing.

I almost believe my lie.

I can absolutely beltHopelessly Devoted, especially after wine, and I’ve already had one. For confidence. Or poor judgment. We’ll see. “Good evening, Hank,” someone says behind me. Then, as an afterthought, “Jake.”

I turn.

There they are.

Hank is fully committed to the T-Bird aesthetic. Black bandana. Chest out. Bottom teeth smiling. Cheeks flapping. I’m matching his theme in a pink bandana, pink shorts, and a white top.

Jake, meanwhile, has made no effort whatsoever. Faded tee, shorts, boat shoes. The stretch of that shirt is doing things to me that should probably require a permit though.

He’s carrying a blanket and hoodie under one arm and a tote bag with Hank’s name on it over his shoulder. The bag appears to weigh forty pounds.

“What’s in there?” I ask.