His lips flatten as he shakes his head and taps his drink against mine. "I'm guessing at some point I will stop feeling surprised by some of the things that come out of your mouth."
Maybe at some point you can feel surprised by something going in my mouth.
Ok, yeah. Maybe don't say that out loud. Duke was right. I need a cold shower.
The popcorn heats up, popping sounds starting. Peter pinches my wearable blanket between two fingers, holding it out to the side. "It's soft. I'm jealous."
"Bet you wish you had one."
"This looks pretty big," he says, tugging until it's all the way out from my body. "There is definitely room for me in there."
His eyes go wide after he says it. "I mean, not that I'm suggesting I get inside"—he gestures frantically—"that. I'm just saying, two average-sized humans could fit in it."
"This is fun," I say, my pointed finger turning circles in the air. "Watching you reverse out of an awkward spot is prime television."
"Ha. Ha," he deadpans. The popping sound coming from the microwave reaches fever pitch, continues on a few more seconds, then trails off. I go to open the microwave door, but Peter stops me with his hand on mine. "You have to let it keep popping. All the kernels at the bottom haven't popped yet."
He's right behind me. The heat of his chest somehow manages to radiate through the thick fabric, searing my skin. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and say, "But you risk burning the already popped corn."
He's still behind me, and I don't dare turn around. "And possibly breaking a tooth on an unpopped kernel."
The popping slows to a trickle. "Was it your plan to delay me enough that you knew you would get your way?"
He takes his hand off mine and steps back. "With you, Sunshine, I have to be crafty in order to get my way."
I throw him a dirty look over my shoulder. "I'll be storing that inside information away for next time."
We get the popcorn separated into two bowls, settling onto the couch with our candy and drinks.
"Get ready to be swept away by a tale of high adventure and true love," I say dramatically.
"True love?" He gives me a look like he's reminding me of our conversation from before.
I roll my eyes. "Of course these characters believe in true love. Somebody wrote a happily ever after for them."
"Somebody's writing your happily ever after, Sunshine, I'm sure of it." He glances back at the kitchen lights, then springs up from the couch. "Do you mind if I turn those off? They're going to cause a glare on the TV."
"Please," I say, tearing into the Sour Patch Kids. "I'll just be over here, stuffing my mouth with sugar and drinking champagne in my wearable blanket."
Peter throws me a grin as he walks past. "And somehow you make it look good."
There goes that softened butter feeling again. I may end up a soupy mess by the time this night is over.
Peter settles on the couch. Slim Jim lies nearby on his bed. The champagne tickles my throat, and I'm more comfortable than I've been in a long time. It's not only the clothing. It's the company.
The movie starts.
"If I hate it," Peter says, taking a handful of my popcorn instead of his own, "it's your fault. And you'll have to choose something else for us to do to make it up to me, because I can never get this time back."
The way he says it, almost morose, has me laughing. "Please don't tell me you're one of those people who talk through movies."
"I am not one of those people who talk through movies."
His assurance holds true. He is quiet, breaking his silence only to laugh, and pausing the movie once to refresh our drinks.
When the movie's over, he picks his head up from the couch cushion and says, "The script definitely does not follow the movie."
"They rarely do," I say, tipping up my champagne flute and finishing the last drop. I glance toward the fridge.
