“Dessert,” I clarify, even though I want to leave it unclarified.
He steps back like the distance will help. “Fine. What are we tasting?”
“Your creativity,” I say.
He groans. “I knew this was a trap.”
“It is absolutely a trap.”
But he still follows me into the test kitchen.
We stand next to each other at the counter, and the space feels smaller than normal. He brushes past me to grab ingredients, and every time he does, I feel it all along my skin.
I shouldn’t be this aware of him, I shouldn’t be this tempted to lean into him.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking up.
“I am observing.”
“Same thing.”
“Observing is scientific.”
“You are not doing science.”
“You don’t know my life.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling again.
I catch his arm lightly as he reaches for a bowl. “You know,” I say, “we never talked about flavor combos yesterday.”
“We did talk about flavor combos.”
“No. You shot down flavor combos.”
“I shot down unreasonable flavor combos.”
“There is no universe where cinnamon-maple-cherry-orange is unreasonable.”
He gives me that look again, the one that says he’s two seconds from losing it. “Charlotte.”
“It could work.”
“It absolutely could not.”
“Okay, but?—”
“Charlotte.”
“Fine,” I say. “How about lemon-vanilla?”
“That’s normal. What’s the catch?”
“No catch. I’m capable of normal.”
“I’m not convinced.”
I bump his shoulder. “I can be normal.”
