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She's watching me with those big green eyes, her lips slightly parted.

And for one terrifying second, I almost tell her.

Everything.

Instead, I do what any emotionally stunted hockey player would do when he's dangerously close to spilling his guts.

I reach between us, swipe a bit of whipped cream from her pie, and tap it on the tip of her nose.

Her eyes go wide.

“Bishop!”

I burst out laughing.

“What?”

“You did not just do that!”

“Pretty sure I did.”

She stares at me, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

Then her gaze drops to my plate.

Oh, shit.

I know that look.

“Becks.”

Her lips curve into a wicked smile.

“Hold still, Ken.”

“Absolutely not.”

She scoops whipped cream onto her finger and lunges across the island.

I catch her wrist inches from my face.

“Nice try.”

“That's cheating!”

“Pretty sure there aren't rules for whipped-cream warfare.”

“There should be.”

I grin. “Take it up with the commissioner.”

She laughs, struggling halfheartedly to free her hand.

And then I get an idea.

A terrible fucking idea.

Keeping my eyes on hers, I bring her hand toward my mouth and slowly suck the whipped cream from her fingertip.