“And you suggested I wear this for a cooking class?” She gestures at her dress. The socks and Mary Jane heels are the perfect ‘Sutton’ touch.
“You should absolutely be wearing this dress.” I give her a one-sided, cheeky smirk. “You look beautiful.”
Glossy lips curl inward. “You don’t look half bad yourself.” Sutton proceeds to check me out, not shy to the way her head shifts to look at my butt.
I run a hand through my hair, remind myself again that this isn’t a dateandthat Sutton doesn’t like me like that.
Inside,they hand us each a white apron. We help each other tie them off in the back and make our way to our stations in the industrial kitchen. A large projector screen set up in the front, the movie’s title screen already queued up.
The instructor is walking around, making sure everyone has everything they need for us to get started shortly. She explains how tonight will work, prompting us on our first step in making the dough, and we’re off while the movie starts.
Sutton is spooning the pizza sauce onto the rolled-out dough. Using the back of the metal spoon to spread it in circles. Her elbow bumps into me, and she instantly apologizes, “Sorry.”
“Lesson number four hundred five.” I’m making up numbers. “If you want the guy to know you are interested in him, touch him. Playfully, like that little bump. Or find a reason to pick something off his shirt, maybe his hair.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
She tries it, but instead of touching my hair, Sutton swipes red sauce across my cheek. “Oops.”
I stick my finger into the excess, lathering it up with sauce. I swipe it across her cheek. “Only fair.”
I pick up a napkin to clean my face, but she stops me. “Let me,” Sutton offers.
She takes the napkin and cleans my cheek, her other hand cupping my sauce-free cheek. I still so close to her. I count her freckles, see if there are any new ones.
“How was that?” she asks, dropping the napkin into the trash.
“Good.” I blink several times. “Yeah, that was smooth.”
Truthfully, I’m flying by the seat of my pants with this date because believe it or not, there isn’t a guide on how to take your childhood rival—her inaccurate term for me that I overheard her call me to Elliot once. I’ve always enjoyed, thrived even, being competitive with her, especially after our friendship imploded. She might see me as her rival because of it, but she could never be mine—that you secretly have a crush on, on a fake date to teach her how to date. No internet searches help either.
I’ve been on dates before, so I’m not completely clueless how to behave, but those always ended up as a means to someone’s bed.
There’s no discussion on toppings after we add cheese. We both know there’s only one option; and it’s as if the instructor knew as well.
I start to reach for the bowl of M&Ms. Sutton has the same idea, our fingers brush.
“Sorry,” we both say in unison. We reach again, fingers brushing a second time but instead of pulling our hands back like we did the first time, they linger there. A blush prickles my cheeks, mirroring Sutton’s.
I run my pinky up hers and her breath hitches. “You should add them.”
“Oh. No, that’s okay.” Her tone changes. “Actually…you should,” she tells me suspiciously. “I’d love to see what you’d put on the pizza.”
Our connection is lost, Sutton crosses her arms, leaning her left hip into the counter, diligently keeping a watchful eye.
I start with a heart. One by one, placing the chocolates in no particular order to outline the shape.
When I finish the bottom point, I peer over at her to capture her thoughts. She’s glowering at me, but there is a hint of a sparkle in her eyes as to what I’m about to put on the inside.
I move the pizza out of sight, putting my back to her. “It’s a surprise.”
Sutton lets out a huff. “I hate surprises.”
“I know,” I taunt.
Carefully, I place the candy onto the pizza. The key to making it look good is first let your pizza cool and to not press the pieces too far into the cheese. A subtle touch, not a press.
