Briefly, I consider the fact that they look better than Amara’s green rug, before mentally slapping myself.
She loves that rug. Let her have it.
A couple more blankets are scattered on top of that, and some electric candles—Briar’s demand, considering she does not trust me with real ones—and snacks occupy the coffee table.
I’m just grabbing glasses of wine from the bar when Amara steps out of her room, Fluffernutter hanging from her arms.
She nearly drops him.
Amara goes from looking suspicious, to looking concerned, to looking sad, then happy, to finally looking at me.
“We’re not filming tonight, are we?”
We’ve been acting through this show. Pretending to like each other. Smiles and hugs and laughs. But when the cameras are off, everything is different.
“This isn’t for that,” I tell her, admiring my work.
Her eyes flicker around, taking it all in. “You came up with this today?”
I nod.
“With no help?”
“Well, there was help. But not by production. Briar may have helped a little.”
She bites her lip. “This feels romantic.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t when we were kids.”
Her face twists with humor. “I mean, it was. Just a little bit. Just in a different way.”
My heart swells with potential.
“I just figured that I have my game in Denver on Thursday, and I had today free. I leave tomorrow.”
Amara smiles, grabbing the menu for our favorite takeout place from my drawer. “What are we ordering?”
I can’t believe I’m here, wrapped up in blankets, with Amara Flores.
“I just think she could have probably come clean a lot faster and avoided all this hassle,” I tell her with an eyeroll.
“You know, we watched this movie together like a million years ago, and your talking points have never changed.”
My arm shoots out toward the TV. “She’s a good soccer player! And her wig seems to come off so easily every other time, but not when she’s playing?”
“Are you telling me that if you wanted to play football so badly but your team was cut, you wouldn’t pretend to be a woman?”
I shake my head. “No. I’d put on a dress for much less, though.”
She smacks my chest, her cheeks turning the most beautiful shade of red.
Fluffernutter lies over her feet, and although we started leaning against opposite sides of the couch, we’ve been somehow scooting closer and closer as the movie progressed.
“Okay,” she smiles. “I feel like I used to know this answer, but what sport would you have played if not football?”
I don’t have to think about it for long. “Hockey.”
She looks appalled. “Why are you lying to me?”
