Page 50

“You owe me,” I say as I take the first bite, closing my eyes when I realize how ridiculously delicious it is.

“Hardly. I remember that cake—I know you’re getting the better end of this deal.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I dig in for another bite. “We’re all cozy over here, pretending to eat off the same plate. I basically announced we’re dating to save you from…what did I save you from?”

“A night of being violently sick to my stomach,” he says dryly.

“Stupid virus,” I mutter. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

I savor the next bite slowly and then go in for another. “You’re going to have to tell them. Not tonight, but sometime when it’s just your parents.”

He doesn’t respond, and I look over and find him frowning at the cake, looking torn.

“I’ve decided I’m going to tell my parents, too,” I say. “I don’t want to be like Jennifer, trying to figure out how to hide blood on family camping trips.”

“Who’s Jennifer?”

“A woman in my support group.”

“She just needs to find a beverage with an amber bottle and disguise it in that.”

“I think you’re missing the point.”

He sighs. “No, I got it. And I know you’re right.” He looks up, meeting my eyes in the growing dusk. “But I think I’d rather you stick around and eat my cake for me.”

I realize how close we are on this little swing, how our legs are pressed together, and my shoulder is brushing his arm.

“Let me have a taste.” He jerks his head toward the cake.

“Won’t it make you sick?”

“Not if I just have a little.”

I press the fork into the cake, taking off a toddler-sized bite.

“About half that,” he says.

“Smaller than this is just a crumb.”

“Yeah, that’s about right.” He doesn’t sound happy about it.

Feeling a little weird, I hold the bite up to his mouth. “You promise this won’t bother you?”

“Promise.” He grins. “But what are you doing?”

I waggle the fork. “You said you wanted some.”

He takes the fork, smirking. “I didn’t mean I wanted you tofeedme.”

I feel myself flush. “Well, it wasn’t my idea either.”

Noah laughs and then groans when he slides the barely-a-bite into his mouth.

“How was it?”

“Good.” He shoots me a wolfish grin. “I mean, it would have been better if you’d been holding the fork, but?—”