Page 95 of Movers and Fakers

“I hope our ice cream isn’t completely melted, because I need something to cool down.”

I giggle again as he falls onto the couch. He grabs a spoon and digs into the mostly melted sundae. I stare at him, memorize the look of his messy auburn hair and sparkling green eyes. The soft smile on his lips, which are red from our intense kiss. Even the stupid T-shirt he’s wearing. He catches me staring and raises a brow.

“What?”

I shake my head.

“I shouldn’t have let you kiss me while wearing that monstrosity.”

He laughs and grabs the hem, lifting it enough to showcase his abs.

“I can take it off, but I don’t think it will help our willpower problem.”

I grab a pillow off the couch and throw it at him, knocking his spoon out of his hand and onto the floor. An evil grin takes over his face.

“You’re gonna pay for that, Princess.”

He gets up and I back away, then break into a run around the bed. It takes mere seconds for him to catch me around the waist. I squeal and curl my legs in as he picks me up. He throws me onto the bed next to my suitcase and immediately begins tickling me. My laughter bounces around the room. I kick and push, trying to get him away.

“Mercy!” I beg through my giggles.

“Say you’re sorry and you love the shirt,” he commands, still torturing me.

“Rule number two,” I reply, barely able to catch my breath.

He laughs and falls over me, holding himself up by planting his hands near my shoulders.

“So we’re sticking to our rules, huh?” he asks in a low, rich tone.

“I like rule number two … and three.”

The thought of Hayes dating anyone else makes me want to put on gloves and jump in a ring.

“And rule number one?” He lowers himself to kiss the corner of my mouth.

“We can get rid of that one,” I whisper.

I feel him smile before he captures my lips in a brief but passionate kiss. He pulls back, desire warming his gaze.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

“I love you, too.”

Chapter forty-eight

Reminiscing

Aurora Driscoll

“Fold in the chocolate chips,” I murmur to myself, reading the recipe card I snuck out of Jasmine’s box she keeps in the small cabinet above the microwave. The wooden box holds what she calls her heirloom-recipe collection. She stores the recipes she wants to pass down to her future kids inside.

The chocolate chips blanket the top of the orange batter as I dump the cup full of them. “Dances of The Swans” from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake plays in one of my earbuds, the other hangs loose over my oversized sweatshirt so that I can hear if any of my roommates call for me.

They should all be sleeping this early on a Sunday—which is why I’m in the kitchen at all. If a single one of them sees what I’m making, I’ll never hear the end of it. My eyes roll when I read the curly script at the top of the recipe card: Marriage Muffins. The pumpkin chocolate chip muffins got deemed that our first semester rooming together and have become a symbol of being in a serious relationship. Jasmine made them for her boyfriend, Shepherd, and Marigold made them for her boyfriend, Jameson.

I thought it would be nice to bake something for Hayes after how much he’s done for me lately, and it’s fall, so pumpkin muffins seemed fitting. That’s all.

A throat clears behind me and I freeze in place.