Page 85 of Fifth Avenue Flirt

Feels like I’m finally getting to know my brother.

TWENTY-FIVE

Ben

As soon as I walk into my apartment, I smell the unmistakable scent of freshly baked cookies, and I grin to myself. It’s good to know Avril’s home. Not her home, of course. But it’s good to know she’s here. When I got back from meeting Bray last night, I wasn’t sure if she was back or not. I assumed she was asleep in bed, as her bedroom door was closed, so I tried not to make a sound and went straight to bed myself.

As I close the door, there’s a crash in the kitchen.

“Fuck!” Avril yells out.

I race to the kitchen, push the door open and find Avril scowling at the floor.

“You okay?” I ask.

At her feet are a tray of burnt cookies.

“I burned myself. And the cookies.”

I bite back a smile. She’s pissed. And she’s cute when she’s pissed.

“Let’s have a look,” I say, stepping toward her.

She stares at her finger.

“Get it under some cold water,” I say, taking her wrist and turning on the tap. I make sure the water pressure isn’t too aggressive and plunge her hand under the water. The burn doesn’t look too bad, but it needs the heat taken out of it.

“I’m fine,” she says, as she tries to twist away from me, and she inadvertently knocks her hip against my thigh. Our eyes lock and she freezes.

Is she thinking what I’m thinking? Is she remembering how our bodies felt as they slid against each other when we weren’t wearing any clothes at all? Is she hoping it will happen again? Am I?

I’m no less confused about any of it than I was when she ran out on me after our night together. I don’t know what she wants, but I don’t know what I want either. I have no track record in holding down a relationship—I haven’t even tried. The idea of having a girlfriend is not something I want in the abstract, but Avril? I definitely want her. I just don’t know how to mesh those things together.

She twists her wrist, trying to free herself from me, but I hold her firm.

“You need to keep your hand under here,” I say. “It will stop the burn spreading deeper into the skin.”

“You’re being dramatic,” she says.

“I’m not the one who dropped cookies all over the floor and dropped the F bomb.”

“That’s not dramatic. That’s an accident.” She has an answer for everything, and I kind of love it.

“I mean it,” I say. “If I let go of your wrist, will you keep your hand under? I’ve had a long day at work and I don’t want to spend the night in the ER because your skin is falling off because you wouldn’t keep your hand under the tap.”

“No, not dramatic at all,” she mumbles, her gaze focused on her burnt finger.

I let go of her wrist, even though I don’t want to. Even though I’d rather wrap my arms around her waist and bury my head into her neck. I take the oven glove from where it’s hanging by the cabinet, and pick up the tray and slide it onto the counter. I don’t say it, but if she’d used the oven glove and not the tea towel, she might not have burned herself.

“You had an urge to bake cookies?” I ask.

“I guess,” she says. “I was trying…I’m not a baker.”

“I’m going to trash these,” I say, tipping them into the bin.

“Oh, I wanted to save them.”

I snap my head around to see if she’s actually lost her mind. She’s grinning at me, and I roll my eyes.