A genuine laugh rips out of me. “While my favorite pastime is pretending I’m trying to get you pregnant, I’ll make sure to warn you, yes.”
Mallory chooses that exact moment to bring us our drinks. Andrea’s milkshake is enormous, topped with an absurd amount of whipped cream, sprinkles, and a candied cherry on top.
“I don’t know how you can have this after everything we ate,” I say once we’re alone again, opening my water.
She takes a long sip through her straw. “This is liquid, so it’ll fill in the gaps in my stomach. And I always have room for sweets.”
With anyone else, I would have explained it doesn’t work that way. But I’m too familiar with her wit and intelligence not to know she’s being humorous. “Must be a raccoon thing,” I mumble before drinking some water.
“You need to find a better nickname for me,” she decides after another sip of her milkshake. “I’mnotexplaining to people why you call me ‘raccoon.’”
“Maybe I’m a raccoon enthusiast.” She laughs at my suggestion but quickly stops herself, trying to stay serious. “And I also call you a dork,” I remind her.
“See, that’s exactly what I mean. You need to find something cute and sweet. Not something that makes everyone question why you picked me, of all people.”
“I’m not a darling, honey, sweetheart, babe… kind of person, Andrea.”
“Then find something personal, something you like about me.”
“I can’t start calling you ‘incredible ass’ in front of people, right?”
She giggles again. “Of course your mind went there, you animal. Pick something cute. Like, if I had dimples, you’d call me dimples.”
“Youhavedimples.”
“The ones above my butt don’t count. Stop trying.”
She looks so fucking pretty, smiling like she does, her eyes sparkling with happiness and enjoyment, and I get lost in the beauty of her face. How did I ever get so fucking lucky?
I’m lost in her when it clicks, and I understand what she means. With a delicate thumb, I follow the path of brown specks that dust the bridge of her nose and cheekbones.
“Those. I love those.”
“My freckles?”
“Yes. Is it an acceptable nickname?”
She nods, a little overwhelmed.
“Then it’s settled,” I decide. “I’m baby, and you’re freckles.”
We continue our drinks in near silence, as if something has shifted between us. When she can’t have more of her milkshake, she slides it over to me. I finish it in a few sips, and she pushes against my side to make me exit the booth. “Come on, we still have to walk to your car,” she reminds me.
Although I think I know what she’s looking forward to, I force myself not to get ideas. I told her I didn’t expect any outcomes from this date, but I also can’t deny that the sexual tension between us is growing unbearable. We need to do something about it if we don’t want it to blow up in our faces. Which could happen at any time, at this point, even at work.
As we reach the locker with our things, I feel her arm pull me to the left. When I look, I see a photo booth. “You want to take pictures?” I ask.
“Yes, to commemorate tonight. Is that alright?”
“Of course. Anything you want,freckles.”
She leads me to the booth and makes me sit first, then props herself on my lap with an arm around my shoulders. When I motion to remove my glasses, she stops me, grabbing my wrist.
“No, keep them on,” she insists. “You look really hot like this.”
A low chuckle rumbles in my chest as I shake my head, lowering my hand to her thigh instead.
“Are we ready?” she asks.
