“I don’t know what to use for a blindfold, so let’s just drape a kitchen towel over your face.”
She leaned her head on the back of the chair, and I placed the towel across her eyes. But not before seeing her arch a single eyebrow in challenge.
“You look way too pleased.”
She sat still so the towel wouldn’t fall, only her nose and mouth uncovered. She smirked.
It took me forever to find something. Mainly, because I was distracted. Miranda wore a button up plaid shirt, knotted near her waist above her jean shorts. Her hair was down, hanging over the back of the chair.
“What’s taking you so long?”
“Sorry.” I forced my attention back to the contents of the fridge. I grabbed a jar of cherries and quietly shut the door. “Okay, I’m ready.”
Her brave face vanished as her hands flew to her lips, protecting them. She squeaked. “I’m so scared.”
“Don’t be.”
Her words were muffled by her hands. “That’s exactly what you said before you touched a habanero to my tongue!”
I chuckled. “Open up.”
She shook her head and her feet tapped the floor. “I can’t.”
“Quick, then it will be your turn to get me back.”
She wailed, but very slowly opened her mouth. I leaned over her chair, my gaze riveted to her lips. It would be evil to kiss Miranda without her expecting it, but I wouldn’t say it didn’t cross my mind.
She squealed in anticipation, her hands pressing against her chin.
As soon as there was clearance, I dropped a cherry in.
She stopped in surprise and a sweet, sweet smile spreadacross her face. “Aw. That was nice.” Unhindered, I watched her lips as she enjoyed the cherry.
I pulled the towel off her face and her gaze met mine. My voice was deeper, more breathy than I intended. “My turn.”
I took the chair spot and covered my eyes. I think she opened every cabinet and door in my kitchen looking for the perfect torture. She thought she was being quiet, but I knew exactly where she was at all times. After a couple minutes, she said with far too much glee. “Okay, Jack, open up.”
I knew it was going to be horrible. But I dutifully obeyed.
Cold, sour liquid.
Freaking pickle juice.
She howled as I gagged and ran to the sink. I hated pickles. Anything pickled. She rubbed my back, laughing, as I rinsed my mouth. “I’m sorry, Jack!” she wheezed. “I had to.”
“That was disgusting.” I spat in the sink.
“Why do you have pickles if you hate them?”
“Pat and Jules,” I croaked.
She quit laughing and replaced her hands on her hips. “Are we even now?”
I turned with a serious face. “Absolutely not.”
Before she could process, I grabbed the sprayer on the sink and got her good. She gasped then dashed out of the spray zone. I grabbed the towel on my shoulder. “Miranda, there’s noevenafter a stunt like that.” I slowly flipped the towel around and around in my hands, turning it into a thin strand.
Her jaw dropped open as fear and realization dawned. “Jackson Barkley, don’t you dare.”
