Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

stopped working. “You’re killing me,” I rasp.

Wesley bends over my deceased frame, brows knitted in their everlasting concern, but his mouth—his mouth, oh, it’s the eighth deadly sin—twitching with gentle amusement. “I’m sorry.”

He is not.

“Fmmphhhhff.”

“Hm?” He cups a hand behind his ear.

“I said that I take back what I said about you not being smooth. You’ve been holding back.”

He helps me upright, then ruffles my hair with a serene smile. “Do you really not want to do the last wish together, then?”

I hear my doom and gloom when I reply, “I see no way around it.”

“Don’t sound so eager.”

I use his arm to pull myself up off the couch. He makes himself immovable, a boulder in tossing seas, to support me. “Sir, I will happily make donuts with you. I will even watch a movie with you. But I refuse to be glad about it. And I refuse to do any more kissing, even though kissing you was the most magical, time-stopping phenomenon I’ve ever experienced and I will perish before I let another man’s lips near me.”

A choking sound escapes him.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I think? I’d rather you told me why you don’t want to kiss again if it was so phenomenal, but for as long as you feel that way, I won’t dare try.” There is no woe-is-me in his voice, no bitterness.

“Is it too much to ask that you be less nice?” I bemoan.

He gives me a once-over. “I don’t understand that thing you’re wearing. Your top is attached to your shorts. How do you go to the bathroom?”

“Yes. More comments like that. And it’s called a romper, by the way.”

“The color of it washes you out.”

My jaw drops. “Hey.”

Wesley grins and grabs my hand, pulling me along after him into the kitchen. “Just kidding. Pink is perfect on you, of course. Every color is—but pink? Pink is a Maybell color.”

My eyes are slits, and Wesley just laughs.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •

“SUGAR, BUTTER, NUTMEG, SALT,” I order, pointing at the ingredients I measured out. “You’re going to mix that together in the larger bowl. Once it’s thoroughly mixed, add an egg, then mix some more.”

Wesley nods once. “Yes, ma’am.”

I won’t lie, it’s nice to be the one who knows what they’re doing. It’s also nice to watch Wesley doing my bidding.

He pulls an electric mixer out of an upper cabinet with ease, and I’m right back to being jealous. I would’ve needed a chair to get that out.

While Wesley mixes, I dump flour and baking powder into a different bowl. He interrupts, delicately brushing my nose with one knuckle.

“Flour?” I guess, rubbing at it.

“A bruise. You hurt yourself?”

On the door, while imagining him naked. It’s what I deserve. “No,” I reply quickly. “That’s probably just a shadow.”

He looks skeptical as I duck my head and squirm away.

“Add this stuff a little at a time to your bowl,” I instruct, pointing at the flour/baking powder mixture. He’s marginally sloppy for my standards, pouring in too much at a time. I bite my tongue but ultimately can’t help taking over. Technically, Wesley is fulfilling the terms of the wish; he’s making Violet’s favorite cinnamon-sugar donuts. I’m merely assisting.

“If I can just squeeze in here . . .” I step in front of him, my back to his chest, commandeering his carton of milk. Wesley frowns, empty hand still raised in the air.

“Shhh.” I pat a fingertip over his lips, feeling them twist up into a smile.

Then I happily return to showing off, stirring the batter like a pro, pouring it into a piping bag. “Like this.” I demonstrate, piping batter into one of the cavities of my donut pan. “You fill it up about halfway.”

“May I?” He reaches.

I quickly pipe a second one (I love piping, it’s so satisfying), then hand it over. Wesley raises the metal nozzle to my cheek and squirts cold batter directly onto my skin. One dollop. Two dollops. One long, curving dollop.

“It’s a smiley face,” he says, gleeful.

I grab his piping bag. “That’s how you lose your privileges.”

“Aw.” He towels off my cheek as I make quick work of the rest of the pan. “Turn that frown upside down.”

I try to glare at him, unsuccessfully.

He’s all innocence. “Now what?”

“Oven. We’ll set a timer for eight minutes, but it might only need seven. And then . . .” I drift off. He’s using leftover batter to doodle a W on top of the pan. I put him to work preparing the topping: one bowl of melted butter, another of cinnamon and sugar.

“Now what?” he asks again once the pan’s in the oven and the timer’s been set.

“Trust fall!” I cry, and fall back. His sturdy arm encircles my waist well before I hit the ground, of course.

“Don’t do that! I was all the way over there!”

I cackle. “I’m pretty sure that one was on Violet’s list. Wish number five: Do a trust fall.”

“You could have actually fallen!”

“Could I have, though?”

He scowls. “No.” Then he leans in, lips at my ear. I instantly erupt in flames. “You say being close is a bad idea, but then you go and fall onto me.”

“Hm?” I spring away, busying myself filling the dishwasher.

“You heard me.” He begins to leave the room.

“Where’re you going?”

“To set up the movie. It’s sacred law, don’t forget.”

While he’s doing that, I take a much-needed breather to slap myself. Get it together! This is a critical period. If I can refrain from swooning all over him, then I don’t see why we both can’t have what we want long-term: a hotel and an animal sanctuary, without stepping on each other’s toes. We’ll likely bicker at times, but a little bickering between equal inheritors is much less damaging than bickering between salty exes forced to live in close proximity to each other for the rest of their lives. This is the mature decision. For once in my life, I am going to look before I leap, and save myself from pain.

I know I’m right in this, but knowing I’m right doesn’t make