He’s so pleased with himself right now. “You look like a miniature football player.”
Okay, well clearly brownies are off the table for tonight because he just started A WAR!
I reach behind me, dunk my fingers into the mix, and then stamp them onto the center of his face. Nice and slow.
“Never,” I whisper in front of his lips like the bad guys always do in movies.
He blinks, brownie batter clinging to his lashes. I can’t swallow as I watch him pull his lips in, nodding slowly. He lets go of me to put his hands on the counter in front of him, hunching over like a beast preparing his plan of attack.
I’m not an amateur, so I grab the mixing bowl full of brownie batter and make a break for it. Except…I’m not moving. My socked feet are gliding on the hardwood but going absolutely nowhere. Who put a treadmill in this floor?!
I look over my shoulder and see Nathan has the back of my shirt pinched between his fingers. And now I’m being slid backward, closer to him. That large hand reaches over my shoulder, and I watch it dip—his whole entire hand—into the bowl of brownie mix I’m clutching tightly in front of me. There’s nothing for me to do but close my eyes as he slowly presses a blob of sticky batter onto the right side of my face. Hair and all. That’s going to be fun to get out.
Can I just say, this is the weirdest, slowest food fight anyone has ever witnessed? And oddly, it’s making me super hot and tingly.
I spin around to face him, and it’s my turn now. I take a dip of batter then smear it across both of his eyebrows. He looks like Eugene Levy now, and I have to press my fist to my mouth to keep from laughing. With a subtle grin, he loads up his finger then uses the batter to paint brown lipstick across my lips—really…freaking…slowly.
Oh.
Okay, well my skin is on fire now. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine. Except I’m not fine because I don’t know what in the hell I’m supposed to make of this! Am I completely off my rocker or is the mood just a little bit sexy right now? I try not to acknowledge the way his finger is lingering on my mouth like he has nothing but time. Is he standing closer than he was a minute ago? His hand drops, and I look up. He’s staring at my mouth. He’s inching closer. His head is dropping.
My breath catches.
He leans down and says quietly in front of my lips, “Thanks for making me brownies. Too bad I didn’t get to taste them.”
Someone has clamped a clothespin over my windpipe. Did he really just say that? Am I still napping and imagining this whole thing? Because it feels a lot like some particularly wonderful dreams I’ve had about Nathan.
He and I have always been blatantly honest with each other (except for when I’m lying through my teeth about my feelings for him), so the question comes out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Nathan, are you flirting with me?”
He’s not shocked by my candor. “Yeah. I am.”
“Why?” I don’t mean to sound so grossed out, but I think it came out that way. I’m just terrified. I’ve got my heart on a very tight leash. No exceptions.
“I’m…practicing.”
“Practicing,” I repeat, my eyes bouncing to the slash of his full lips and back up to his eyes in a moment of weakness. I wish the fact that he was covered in brownie mix was deterring. It’s not. I love brownies.
“Don’t you think it’s a good idea?” He’s talking so quiet, voice so gravelly. I feel lightheaded hearing his words this way. “We’re going to have to flirt in public, so we’ve got to get used to it for it to be convincing.”
I give that logical response the brilliant reply it deserves. “Uh-huh.”
A small chuckle rumbles from his chest. “You okay, Bree?” He sounds extra flirty now. Amused. And his lips are dangerously close to my brownie lipstick. Ahh! His hand is on my hip! When did that happen?! Wait a minute—are we going to kiss right now? Are two friends about to make out in this kitchen covered in brownie batter?
That’s when it hits me: this is an ego trip for him right now. He’s on a high after winning another playoff game, and I’m nothing but a little mouse for the big cat to play with in the kitchen. We don’t need to practice. He’s just being a flirty jerk and messing with me during his macho ego high. NOPE. That’s not going to happen. Just like I don’t want a pity relationship with him, I don’t want a well-she-was-there-and-it-was-convenient one-night fling either. Maybe he could handle something like that, but I couldn’t. Friends with benefits will never be a part of our description, because it would kill me for him to walk away from me after it’s all said and done. It’s all or nothing for me.
Nathan continues his game. “So let’s pretend we’re in public right now, and everyone is watching.” He’s still staring at my lips. “We’ve really got to sell it. If I said, Too bad I didn’t get to taste them, what would you say to that?”
I have the strongest willpower in all the land. I have a free pass to let Nathan Donelson taste the brownies right off my lips, and instead, I stick my hand in the batter, pull out a whole scoop, and smear it around his entire face until it completely hides his features. There. He’s Mud Man now.
I step back, wipe my hands on a kitchen towel, and smile proudly. “I’d say, Now you’ve got plenty to sample! Enjoy!”
I think he’s frowning under all that batter, but it’s hard to tell.
I turn away and flee the kitchen, calling over my shoulder, “I’m staying in the guest room tonight because it’s too late to walk home and no other reason!”
Boom. Status quo re-established. Friendship saved.
Completely normal. Everything is absolutely and completely normal. Just my normal friend Nathan and normal me hanging out on a normal day where everything is fine.