And Nate might not want me by then, anyway. By the time summer rolls around, he’ll have long figured out he’s far too good for someone as boring and difficult as me.
Luke and Maxare in the kitchen when Nate and I walk through the door. The counters are an absolute disaster, and Luke has so much flour speckled in his hair, it looks like he’s got dandruff. I realize, when his dark eyes track from me overto Nate, that the pair of them haven’t actually been formally introduced yet.
“Nate!” Max says exuberantly, metal mixing bowl cradled against his chest as he stirs something with a wooden spoon. “You guys are just in time to help!”
“Nate, this is Luke.” I wave a hand in Luke’s direction and step close enough to Max that I can peek into his bowl. A lump of chunky dough sits in the bottom. I miss what Nate says to Luke, distracted. “What is this supposed to be?”
“It’s banana bread,” Max tells me cheerfully.
“Are you sure?”
He frowns, looking down at the dried clumps of dough he’s ineffectually stirring. Behind me, Luke laughs loudly. I turn to find Nate showing him something on his cellphone and both of them wearing identical grins. Max raises his eyebrows at me,I told you soclear in his expression.
“We followed the recipe,” he says, bringing me back to the banana bread. At the mention of food, Nate looks over. Luke runs a hand through his hair, dusting flour across the tops of his shoulders. I cannot fathom how he could get so messy unless they were having a food fight in here.
“I don’t think it’s meant to be that dry,” I tell Max. “You added too much flour, probably.”
“What? It’s fine,” Luke protests. “We can just add a little water or something.”
“Let’s try that,” Max agrees, holding the bowl under the faucet. Luke turns it on, and I flinch at the volume that splatters into the bowl.
“And now it’s going to be too wet,” I mutter. Nate laughs.
“I’m pretty sure we did this exactly right. We followed thisprecisely,” Luke tells me, holding out his phone to show methe recipe. There’s a smear of banana across the top corner, obscuring the screen.
“Well, I guess we’ll see,” I say doubtfully, watching as Max pours the batter into a baking pan. I glance up at the oven. “Did you pre-heat that?”
“Damn,” Luke mutters. “Forgot that part.”
“You could probably cook it while it’s pre-heating,” Nate puts in. “Pre-heating is more of a suggestion than a requirement, right?”
“Ay dios mío,” I mutter, rubbing my temples.
“None of that attitude, MG,” Luke says, pointing at me. Nate raises a questioning eyebrow, and Luke adds in explanation, “Marcos the Grouch.”
I roll my eyes, and put a hand on Nate’s back to steer him from the kitchen.
“Don’t mind him. We picked him up off the side of the road and are just waiting for the Humane Society to come put him down.”
Luke laughs and rolls his eyes good-naturedly, tipping his head obligingly when Max reaches over to brush the flour off his hair.
“We’ll call you when the banana bread is done,” he tells us.
“Thanks!” Nate replies enthusiastically. We retreat into my bedroom, and he turns to me the moment the door is closed, smile falling and expression becoming serious. “We’re going to have real food, right?”
“Oh yeah, we aren’t eating whatever that is. I can promise you, it’s not banana bread.”
Kicking off his shoes in a way that flings them across the room, he flops back on my bed with his legs hanging off the side.Lying like that, his shirt pulls up just enough to see a smooth expanse of belly, three different layers of tan lines visible. When I sit down next to him—close enough that his thigh is pressed against my hip—he touches his fingertips to my lower back in a silent question. I think about it for a second before answering.
“I think so,” I say eventually. Immediately, those fingers snake beneath the hem of my shirt and he flattens his palm against my skin, stroking up my spine as high as he can reach. A sensation like tiny electrical shocks travels across my skin, and my stomach squirms. I sigh.
“Actually, maybe not,” I tell him softly. His hand is gone from my shirt in moments, and I feel a gentle tug as he pulls it back into place. I don’t turn around and look at him yet, frustrated with myself.
“Come lie down,” he requests, scooting over a bit to give me enough room that I don’t have to touch him if I don’t want to.
I comply, mimicking the way he’s lying and resting my hands on my stomach. Turning my head, I look at him and find his eyes already on me. Rolling on to my side just enough to reach, I put my hand flat on his stomach above his shirt and spread my fingers. He smiles.
“Sorry,” I apologize. Sadness overpowers the frustration as I look at him. I’m not sure how long this relationship will last—not when Nate both wants and needs more contact than I’ll probably ever be able to give him.
