“You raised a wonderful young man,” Mom says to Mila, who smiles at the compliment.
“It’s so crazy to think that in less than two months we’ll officially be family,” Mila gushes.
“I know! Go ahead, Lexi,” Mom says. “Have fun surfing. We’ll put together a list of things we need to do, and we’ll get together soon to go over it all.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I give her a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks, Mila.” I kiss her cheek as well.
When I get to the beach, I text Alec I’m here, so he knows that if he texts or calls why I might not answer him right away. He’s on shift, and I’ve noticed when he’s at the station and there are no fires, he gets bored and will text me. As much as I hate being away from him, I enjoy our nightly conversations. Sometimes they even get heated and end with us having phone sex.
After I get a good practice in, I head home. As I’m walking toward the door, my phone goes off. I check it and see it’s Alec: Happy Anniversary.
Anniversary? I text back. We’ve only been together for a few weeks.
Alec: It’s been one month since you agreed to be my girlfriend.
I laugh at how cheesy he is.
Me: Is this your way of ensuring you’ll get laid when you get home? Because I can assure you, I’m a sure thing.
I pull up my calendar and set a reminder to notify me every month so I can be as cheesy as he is. When I type in the event, I notice there are only a few weeks until the surfing comp. It’s kind of crazy how quickly a month has passed and how much has changed during that time. In August, Alec and I will be getting married, and then shortly after, I’ll either be heading off to tour the world surfing or signing up for my fall classes. My stomach sinks at the thought. I know Alec said we would make it work, but when I signed up to do this competition, I never imagined leaving to follow my dream would mean leaving him. It’s definitely something I need to think about.
Alec: Getting to be inside you is always a positive, but all I need is you in my arms when I get home.
I smile at how sweet he is, and then an idea hits…
“Alexandria Scott!” Georgia yells, covering her ears. “What are you doing?”
“I was baking brownies for Alec’s and my anniversary,” I yell back, trying to stab the smoke alarm with the end of the broom.
“Your what?”
“It’s our one-month anniversary,” I explain, bashing the alarm. “Go tell Ms. Holden not to call nine-one-one!” I grab a chair and stand on it, reaching up to press the button. I keep hitting it, but it doesn’t stop alerting everyone in the vicinity that I once again fucked up something I was trying to bake.
“Oh my God!” Georgia yells. “Did you turn the oven off?”
“Oh, shit! I forgot.” I was too busy trying to shut the damn alarm off. I jab my finger into the alarm and it finally silences it.
Jumping down, I run over to the oven Georgia just turned off and open it to take the brownies out, so they’ll stop cooking even more.
“No, wait!” Georgia says, but it’s too late. The smoke fills the air, and the alarm starts blaring again.
“Go tell Ms. Holden not to call nine-one-one,” I tell her again, dropping the burnt to a crisp brownies on top of the stove.
“Too late,” a deep voice says. “If you wanted to see me, all you had to do was ask.”
I remove the oven mitts and run into Alec’s arms. Since he was gone before I woke up this morning, I haven’t seen him since last night.
The blaring comes to a halt, and I find Chase and a couple of the other guys Alec works with standing there, dressed in matching uniforms, wearing matching smirks. I back up slightly and run my eyes down Alec, who’s wearing the same thing they all are. There’s just something about a man in a uniform…
“Lex,” Alec groans, shaking his head. “What happened?”
“I was making you brownies for our anniversary. I was going to bring them to the station.”
Alec’s face lights up before he quickly schools his features.
“I’m telling you there’s something wrong with that oven.” I point to the offending object that keeps burning my shit. “It said to bake for fifty-five minutes. I set the timer and it hasn’t even gone off yet. I don’t understand how it could even be burnt.”
“One,” Georgia says. “Fifty-five minutes is for an eight-by-eight pan. This is eight-by-thirteen, so it should’ve only been twenty-five minutes.” Oops… “And two, the timer isn’t on.” She presses the blinking numbers and the timer starts. “You never hit start.”