Page 111 of Not Safe for Work

“You hate movies like that.”

“I know, but today, I love them.”

She squeezes my hand, and I head for the bathroom.

Once I’m clean, I put on some comfy clothes and tie up my hair in a messy bun. I still look pale and wrung out, but at least I don’t smell anymore.

As I enter the living room, a knock sounds at the door.

I walk over, not even bothering to check through the peephole. I’d welcome a serial killer right now. Maybe he’ll do me a favor and cut out my heart. I have no use for it anymore.

But when I open the door, every drop of air is expelled from my lungs.

Rafe stands on the other side, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed and a large reusable grocery bag dangling from his elbow. He smiles and holds up his phone.

“As I mentioned, we’re doing something different today,” he says to the screen, stepping into my apartment. “This place belongs to someone who means a lot to me. I want to introduce you all to Tris.”

He flips the phone around, and I drop to the floor, covering my head with my arms.

“What the hell, Rafe? I look like a corpse right now,” I hiss. I’ve morphed into a mole person who’s emerged squinty and pale in the bright light of day.

He grins and flips the phone back to himself. “Okay, she’s being shy right now, but we’ll work on that.” He looks around and whistles. “Nice apartment. I’m going to need your kitchen.”

His gaze sweeps over me as he kicks off his shoes and then drops the bag on my island.

Dumbfounded, I watch as he unpacks various plastic containers and kitchen instruments. He pulls out a black stand with an arm like a bendy snake and sets his phone in the holder. The smile he turns on the camera is so bright it’s like a thousand-watt bulb has exploded in my apartment.

Then he smiles at me, and my heart crumbles in my chest.

“Rafe, what are you—”

He holds up a finger and then pops open one of the plastic containers he’s pulled from his bag.

“I know this isn’t normally how I do it,” he tells the camera. “But I’ve prepared some stuff ahead of time.” He pulls out several rounds of golden pastry crust, each disc about an inch deep and a hand span across.

“The pastry is already made, but you all know the recipe for this one.”

I pull out my phone and navigate to the live feed, watching as hundreds of comments pop up, tripping over each other.

Dude, you’re hot.

What’s going on? Who is this?

Marry me.

Take off your shirt, Rafe.

Where do I find the recipe?

I cover my mouth in amusement as he continues to narrate his actions.

He holds up a second container and lifts the lid. “Here we have my signature lemon curd, swirled with a little rose water. It’s butter and sugar and eggs and flavoring. I’ll share the recipe when I post the photo.”

He flashes me another smile, and I’m too stunned to react.

Molly drifts over and plants her elbows on the counter as we exchange a bewildered look.

“Where are your pots?” Rafe asks, and I point to the drawer near the stove.