Too much room for something to go wrong, you know?
But she’s circling the counter on her side, splashing the alcohol on everyone’s individual cheese dip.
You can tell who’s been here before because they’re grinning as big as I am.
When she’s doused all of our dips, she disappears under the countertop for a second, then emerges with a handheld kitchen torch.
“This was worth being your date for the evening,” I hear Nina say to Silas.
I can tell by the way Fletcher’s mustache twitches again that he heard it too.
“Samesies,” I murmur.
He gets as close to grinning at me as he’s ever come.
I’m almost getting used to the ’stache.
Or possibly I’m developing coping skills that block it out of my vision.
Rosalia circles the group again, touching the Everclear with the flaming torch to light our individual cheese dips on fire.
I’m ready with my camera when she gets to ours. This is absolutely going up on my socials. And I don’t seem to be the only one.
There are phones recording videos and taking snapshots all over the kitchen. Isabella, the team photographer, and Shade, Fletcher’s personal paparazzo, are both ready.
I get a five-second video of the flames, then snap a picture, and then I hear my name.
“Goldie. C’mon. Pose before the flame goes out,” Fletcher says.
I spin on my stool. Shade is there waiting while Fletcher holds his flaming cheese dip with his hands in the oven mitts that are a tad too small for him.
“Can you do your magic to erase the mustache before you post this?” I ask Shade.
He smirks.
Fletcher wraps an arm around me and holds the flaming cheese closer to both of our faces.
We both smile, and Shade snaps a photo with a murmured, “Good, good. Goldie, laugh at something, you’re on video… Good. Thank you. Now, shift closer to him. Huxley, that mustache is an abomination. Goldie, hold still, and?—”
And before they can sayall done, or whatever they were going to say next, Fletcher jostles into me, the flaming cheese tilting precariously in his hand.
“Sorry not sorry,” Silas mutters as the dip tips, and I suck in a breath and Fletcher juggles the dish, flames wobbling side to side while I leap away.
The flames aren’t high, butthey’re still flames, and you know what’s about to happen.
Fletcher’s going to drop it down his front and set his shirt on fire andwhere is the fire extinguisher?
Except that’s not what happens.
What happens is that Fletcher recovers his balance and grip on the flaming cheese, blows it out, and then…
Blows it out again.
Except the cheese is already out.
Not out?
His mustache.
