Her mouth parted on a laugh, but it caught when her eyes dipped to mine. For half a second, the tiny kitchen forgot how to hold space between us.
Four Sundays ago, she would’ve stepped away immediately, but now she stayed long enough for my pulse to notice.
Then her phone buzzed on the counter, and the warmth drained from her face so quickly I looked down before I could stop myself.
Luke DNA
The name was listed with stop signs next to the DNA and I assumed it was for do not answer. Bliss flipped the phone over so fast it nearly slid off the counter and something inside me went very, very still.
“You good?” I asked.
“Yeah.” Too quick. Too bright. “Probably spam.”
I looked at the phone, but didn’t call her on it. Not yet. Instead, I opened the taco bag. “Eat.”
She blinked. “That was bossy.”
“You get mean when you’re hungry.”
“I am adorable when hungry.”
“You threatened me with a potato peeler last week.”
“You insulted my chopping symmetry.”
“Because it was uneven.”
She gasped like I’d wounded her, and the moment shifted back onto safer ground. For now.
We ate tacos over her kitchen counter like we had all the time in the world. She told me Daniel had texted seven times about charcoal, lighter fluid, and whether I was “the kind of guy who ate onions,” which apparently meant he was trying. I told her onions were not a personality test. She said in the Bennett house they were absolutely a personality test and I had better answer correctly.
After we ate, we made the potatoes. That was how Sundays went now. Bliss washed, I dried. She cut, I seasoned. She told me I used too much garlic. I told her there was no such thing. She accused me of being corrupted by wealth. I told her garlic was classless and therefore belonged to everyone. She laughed hard enough to tip sideways into the counter, and I had to look away because wanting her was getting less theoretical every time she smiled at me without armor.
The project sat in the corner of every Sunday like an excuse we both kept pretending to need.
Her notebook came with us sometimes. She asked me questions while we packed food, while we walked to her Jeep, while we sat in the driveway before going inside her father’s house. Some were easy. Favorite rink. Worst habit. Best teammate. First time I knew hockey was more than something I did.
Some were not.
What scares you most about being drafted? What does pressure feel like when everybody thinks you were built for it? Who are you when no one expects anything from you?
She asked like she wasn’t trying to cut me open. Somehow that made the blade go deeper.
And every time I answered honestly, she looked at me like I had handed her something fragile and she knew exactly how to hold it.
Which was why I kept coming back early and why I knew her taco order, or why I noticed the phone. Which was why I was already watching before we ever got to her father’s house.
Daniel Bennett’s backyard sounded like war by the time we arrived.
Children shrieking. Men arguing. Something metal clanging near the garage. A dog barking like it had also been invited to debate the grill situation. The smell of smoke drifted over the fence, heavy and ominous, followed by Daniel’s voice booming, “It is not burned. It’s called flavor.”
Bliss paused beside me on the driveway and closed her eyes. “Every week. Every single week.”
I took the foil pan from her hands. “He’s consistent.”
“He’s a menace.”
“Genetic.”
