I'm falling for you. Please don't break my heart.
Mac kissed her back, his hands gentle on her waist, and Rachel thought maybe, just maybe, he understood anyway.
10
Mac
Mac had made a terrible mistake.
Not asking Rachel to dinner at his apartment; that part was fine. Great, even. Rachel had said yes immediately, suggesting they could have a quiet evening without the whole town watching them through café windows.
No, the mistake was telling Rachel he could cook.
"So," Rachel said from her perch on his kitchen counter, "how's the pasta coming along?"
Mac stared at the pot of water that absolutely, definitely, should have been boiling by now. "Great. Fantastic. Any minute now."
"Mac, I've been here for twenty minutes and you've looked at that pot exactly forty-seven times."
"Watched pots don't boil. That's science."
"That's superstition." But Rachel was smiling, that real smile she'd been giving him more and more lately. The one that made his chest feel too small for his lungs.
They'd been dating for two weeks. Two weeks of texts that made practice impossible to concentrate on. Two weeks of stolen kisses in library stacks and between bookstore shelves.Two weeks of Mac falling harder and faster than he'd ever fallen for anyone.
And now he was going to ruin it all with uncooked pasta.
"You know," Rachel said, hopping down from the counter, "there's no shame in ordering pizza."
"Pizza is admitting defeat."
"Pizza is delicious and reliable." Rachel moved closer, peering into the pot. "Mac, is this thing even on?"
Mac looked at the stove dial. Which was definitely, absolutely, pointing to the "OFF" position.
"...It was on. I turned it on. I specifically remember turning it on."
"Did you turn it all the way? Or just to the little click?"
Mac tested the dial. It clicked about three times before actually engaging.
Rachel burst out laughing.
"Don't laugh at me," Mac said, but he was grinning despite his embarrassment. "This is a crisis situation."
"You're a professional athlete. You've played in front of thousands of people. And you're defeated by pasta?"
"Those thousands of people weren't someone I'm trying to impress."
Rachel's laughter softened. "Mac, you don't have to impress me. I'm already impressed."
"By my inability to turn on a stove?"
"By your willingness to try." She reached past him, adjusting the dial properly. The burner clicked to life, flame spreading in a neat blue ring. "There. Crisis averted."
"You're my hero."
"I know." Rachel leaned against the counter beside him, her shoulder brushing his. Puck, Mac's gray tabby, had materialized on the opposite counter, watching them with cold feline judgment. "So this is Puck."
