Page 71 of Crease Collision

“They’re frozen. You can’t make the meatballs?” He deserves that.

He shrugs. “I guess it’s possible, but this flavor is classic.”

I draw out a long, “Okay.”

We laugh, and then he says, “My mother makes them from scratch. I do not. But I promise this brand is delicious.”

I nod. “Let’s pay, then. I want to find out for myself.”

It’s only a five-minute walk to Oskar’s place. The minute we get inside and drop the groceries on the counter, he strips off his sweatshirt in one smooth motion. He’s wearing a light blue Henley that clings to his muscles. The fabric stretches across his shoulders, dips into the hollow of his throat, and then follows the lines of his chest down to a perfect V. The fit is so tight I can see the outline of his abs.

I know I’m staring, but so what. My fingers twitch with the urge to touch him.

“Kai?” His voice pulls me back. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” I manage, my voice a little rough. “Just… admiring the decor.”

He puts an arm around my shoulders. “Let me give you a tour.”

But he doesn’t move.

Oh, shit.

Sweat runs down the back of my neck.

His eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up.

Neither of us says anything.

When he licks his lips, my brain nearly blue-screens.

He moves his hand to my back. “No tour. We’d better cook.”

The kitchen is all stainless steel and white tile. With the lights on, it’s so bright it hurts my eyes. It’s as cramped as a penalty box, so we touch every time either of us moves.

Not a bad thing. Right?

“Need the salt,” I say, already reaching around his waist. My knuckles glide against his hips.

“Here.” He turns and hands me the shaker, and his fingers brush mine.

Focus. Food. No being stupid.

I dump the ground beef into the pan. Too hot. The sizzle is so loud it sounds like I’ve set the kitchen on fire. I add salt, and the smell hits—searing meat, a little metallic, almost too much. I breathe through my mouth. Five-count in, four-count out.

“Your sloppy joes seem very American. Quick and convenient.”

“At least I didn’t use meatballs from Sweden in a plastic bag,” I shoot back, making sure he sees my smile. “What’s the deal with those, anyway? They look like little pucks.”

The crinkles at the corners of his eyes tell me he’s amused. “These are great, you’ll see. But Mormor, my grandmother, made the best meatballs. Beef and pork, more nutmeg than most people.”

“Nutmeg? Isn’t that for eggnog or something?”

He adds sauce to the pan and stirs it. “Once, my sister and I tried to make them for Mormor’s birthday. Disaster. It’s harder than it looks, and we forgot to add egg. She got meat soup for dinner.”

I can’t help laughing, and my hand slips as I add the sloppy joe sauce to the ground beef. Some of it spills on the countertop next to the stove.

“Shit!” I grab a paper towel and wipe at the mess.