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And he probably will be because I can’t imagine ever feeling the way I do about him with anyone else.
15
WHEN WE MADE COBBLER
“Pretty as a peach.”
“What?” I laugh, watching Arya throw too-ripe peaches at Walker and Roman. Ender stays back, his attention on me, a sparkle in his eyes. We have two days left before I head home. And since he kissed me, not a lot has changed. Nothing has changed actually. Just that I kissed him. Or he kissed me.
He hasn’t tried since.
“You heard me.” Ender stands up to brush dead grass from his swim shorts. “Why do people do that? You obviously heard what I said. You’re blushing.”
“Peaches are pretty?” I stand up.
“Hell, I don’t know if peaches are pretty. It’s a saying or some shit like that.” He laughs. “And you blushed too.”
I glance down at the peaches in my hand, wanting to throw them at him. Arya has the right idea. “We should make cobbler out of these.”
“Can you?”
I squint into the sun. “Why?”
For the first time since I met him, his smile is boyish and convincing. “Peach cobbler is my favorite.”
There’s no way I can make it at Aunt Leslie’s, not with my parents hanging around. “Not at my aunt’s house. My dad’s there.”
“Yes.” Ender tosses a peach in his hand like it’s a baseball. “And we know how much he loves me.”
I blow off his remark. My dad hates him and he knows it. “Think your mom will let me make it at your house?”
“Sure. She loves you.”
Do you?
I don’t ask.
* * *
“Prepare yourself. I’m an amazing cook,”I tell Ender, peeling and pitting the peaches.
“My family makes some pretty kick-ass Southern food,” he says, turning slowly and smiling, measuring out flour and sugar for me. “You’re gonna have to prove to me you’re a good cook.”
The tops of my ears turn bright red. “You should prove you’re a good kisser.” Yep, blurted that right out there in the open. Talk about word vomit.
Ender raises an eyebrow and stops measuring the flour. In fact, he actually drops the measuring spoon in the container as a chuckle rolls through him, his shoulders shaking. “Oh fuck that. You know I’m a good kisser.”
I stare at the peaches. “I only kissed you once.”
He stops what he’s doing and stares at me. “Do you want me to kiss you again?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug one shoulder. “I’m just saying, if you’re a good kisser, I really wouldn’t know. I’ve only kissed you once.”
“Twice,” he corrects.
“Second doesn’t count.”
He eyes me, his expression cold as he drops the measuring spoons and lays his hands flat against the counter. “Why the fuck not?”