Page 31 of The Underachiever’s Guide to Love and Saving the World

COURTNEY

This family was so different from mine—their smiles real, their interest genuine.

One of the oldest girls had recently had a baby, who was now happily bouncing on Bryce’s lap.

Bryce himself looked shell-shocked to have found himself holding a miniature human.

He handled the child as though he thought it might break apart.

Meanwhile, the baby thrashed around unconcernedly, cooing and dribbling drool over Bryce’s fingers.

Instead of asking the new mother what milestones the baby had reached like it was a competition to see which infant in the family would achieve things faster, her family asked questions like How are you? and What’s it like being a mother? and You’ll let us know if you ever need help, right?

The kitchen was nothing like my parents’ either.

Not a trace of marble in sight. It was all warm woods, cream plaster, and cast iron.

Thanks to Mama’s brisk instructions, I soon had a decent idea what I was doing.

We formed an assembly line—some making dough, some rolling, some forming the tarts.

It was efficient, but there were also plenty of shenanigans, which Mama loosely refereed, and Pop blatantly encouraged.

The girls had some sort of ongoing game they called shleekshelock , which, from what I understood, roughly translated to Kill the Guy with the Ball.

The rules of the game were what you would expect.

They had a small wooden ball, and if someone spotted you with it, they were allowed to obtain it from you by whatever means necessary.

Physical violence was encouraged, though there was also a certain amount of strategy involved.

The trick was to sneakily pickpocket the ball and hide it before anyone knew you had it.

They’d already roped Bryce into the game, though I declined after learning “Once you agree to play shleekshelock , you’re a player for life.”

Every so often, I looked up from my work, seeking Bryce, needing to see what he was doing.

Each stolen glimpse was a reward, sending endorphins straight to my heart, whether a ten-year-old was commanding him to toss berries into her awaiting mouth, or he was being dogpiled by every child in the house as they wrestled him for a ball.

Sometimes I caught him looking at me, just grinning, with a thoughtful look in his eyes.

I sprinkled flour onto the smooth wooden counter before plopping a new ball of dough onto the surface and pressing my rolling pin on top of it. I didn’t notice when the voices around me faded, so focused was I on making this batch less lopsided than the last.

“Flatter,” a low voice said behind me, hot breath tickling the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. Bryce’s arms circled me from behind, his hands coming to rest overtop my flour-covered ones gripping the rolling pin. “Like this.”

Slowly, he guided my movements, his chest pressing into my back. As if by magic, the stubborn dough I’d been struggling to roll evenly transformed into a perfectly smooth circle.

I glanced to the side, noticing we were suddenly alone.

Everyone else had gone to the sitting room to watch the baby gurgle and laugh over a silly face one of the girls had been making.

The sounds of joy from the other room combined with the closeness of Bryce and the taste of sugar on my tongue sent bliss curling through my heart.

Maybe this was what family was supposed to feel like.

Maybe this was what belonging felt like.

“How do you know how to make a tart?” I asked, my voice hushed.

“My grandma taught me. I lived with her and Grandpa for a while.”

He reached around me, picking up one of the tart molds and placing it in my hands. I held it as he expertly pressed dough inside with his thumbs, his fingers cradling my hands. Maybe he couldn’t sword fight. Maybe he was scared of horses. But the man could competently make a tart.

“This is nice,” he said into my ear. “Just like a Christmas commercial.”

The more I pieced together of Bryce, the more I realized the universe had not blessed him as I’d once supposed. He was as lost as I. From the clues I’d gathered, it sounded like he had less of a family than I did. At least mine were around, even if they didn’t like me.

I turned in his arms, and he didn’t step back, so my back pressed into the counter. “You weren’t alone last Christmas, you know. I was there too.”

A soft smile touched his lips. “Yeah, I know. I sat against our shared wall so I could listen when you started playing a song called ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Fuck This’ on repeat.”

“I turned it on for you,” I confessed. “I thought you might appreciate the sentiment.”

Flour floated lazily in front of the windowpanes.

The smell of cooking tarts rose warmly from the stove.

Distant baby belly laughs sounded from the other room, followed by delight and praise.

The perfectness swelled, the warm, solid, right feeling too much to bear.

I was too happy. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. I wanted to—

“I want to hug you again,” Bryce said simply.

All I could do was nod.

One step, and he was holding me. His arms were sure when they banded around me.

I’d never felt so snug and secure, so used to the obligatory featherlight side hugs from my old friends and family.

He smelled like warm sugar and soap. I pressed my face into his chest, overwhelmed by everything I was feeling, positive emotions on top of positive emotions.

He cradled my head, stroking my hair, tucking his face against my neck. God, he was a good hugger.

“I need to tell you something,” he whispered into my hair.

I nodded against his chest, braced for whatever he might have to say.

“I’ve had the ball for like half an hour, and I think they’re beginning to suspect.”

I peeked over his shoulder to find giggling faces stacked in the half-open door to the sitting room.

“I knew it!” one screamed.

They attacked like wolves, ripping Bryce away from me. When he begged me to save him from their clutches, I only laughed and blew him a kiss.

Too tired after the evening of baking to walk all the way to the castle, we checked into an inn Mama recommended down the street.

“We need a room,” Bryce said to the innkeeper. “I’m sure, what with the tournament in a couple of days, you only have one available, right?”

The innkeeper smiled. “It’s your lucky day! We just had a cancellation. We have two empty rooms.”

“What a shame. Only one room.” Bryce tsked and shook his head.

The innkeeper’s smile faded. “You must have misheard, sir. I said—”

“And, let me guess,” Bryce cut in coolly. “That room doesn’t have two beds.”

I smiled, catching on to what he was doing. Bless Bryce and his fondness for romance novels.

“Of course we have multiple beds available upon request.” The innkeeper puffed up. “We are a reputable establishment, good sir. To only have one bed available?” He scoffed. “Unacceptable.”

I sighed. “Whatever are we going to do. Only one room with only one bed.”

The innkeeper protested. “Have you not heard a word I have said to you?”

Giving up, Bryce leaned over the counter and held out a hand. “I’d like one room, please. With one bed.”

The room was small but cozy, with a simple, small bed, and a fireplace that coated the wooden beams and cream plaster in hues of warmth.

I wasn’t sure if Bryce had requested one bed because we’d come to an unspoken agreement not to sleep alone in this strange world, or because… because our perfect afternoon had affected him like it had affected me.

But he didn’t make a move as we readied ourselves for bed, and soon, we were bidding each other good night as we pulled the sheets over our shoulders.

I closed my eyes. The fire burned low, the air chilled, and still, sleep didn’t come.

Sleep didn’t come, but I wanted to. I tried to remember all the reasons we’d agreed to never grow close. I couldn’t recollect a single one.

Slowly, I scooted my way toward the center of the bed. The unused sheets were freezing, but Bryce’s body radiated heat inches away.

Bryce made a soft noise, rolling onto his side, his hand flopping across my stomach. I looked from his face to his hand and back again. He breathed evenly, eyes closed. Asleep.

Inch by inch, so as not to wake Bryce, I scooched closer until I pressed against his side. His hand slid to my lower belly, then over my hip. The contact burned through my thin underdress. I almost forgot the reason I’d come over here was because I was cold. Cold was a distant memory.

I jumped when Bryce spoke. “What are you doing?” His voice was deeper than normal—slower, too, thick and sluggish from drowsiness.

It slid over me like a heavy blanket, providing the same false sense of security a blanket did—because, let’s face it, the thought of Bryce protecting anything was hilarious.

I found my voice. “I was watching you sleep. In the creepy way, not the cute way. You look so peaceful with your mouth shut. If a person didn’t know you, they’d never guess what a massive doorknob you are.”

He grinned wickedly and cracked an eye. “You think my knob is massive—confirmed.”

“Shut up, Bryce.”

He closed his eyes again. “If you wanted to cuddle, you could’ve asked.”

“I don’t want to cuddle . I’m cold.”

“What am I supposed to do about that if you don’t want to cuddle?”

“We should huddle for warmth.”

“So, cuddling.”

“Huddling.”

Bryce grunted. “Fine, but I’m little spoon.” But he didn’t move, thumb trailing a slow circle around my hip.

His touch was painfully affectionate. The unfamiliarity of it washed waves of raw vulnerability over me. I clenched bedsheets in my fists but couldn’t hold back a shiver.

“Are you actually cold?” Bryce sighed, and I nodded, teeth chattering from things that had nothing to do with the temperature. The strange, nervous lightness to my stomach sent trembles through my limbs and made it hard to think.