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He blows out a breath and nods. “Yeah… ok. I can do this.” He reaches for a bag of chocolate chips and rips it open. “I accepted a job I love, and I’m happy with it,” he mutters to himself as he dumps the chocolate chips into a bowl. “And MMA is not a hobby, I am pursuing a professional career in it, and I am good at it.”
I watch him as he continues to mumble to himself, like he’s practicing what to say to his parents, and getting lost to his head.
I dip my hand into the bowl full of flour mixture next to me, pinch some between my fingers, and flick it at him.
He blinks and sputters as it hits his face, turning to me with wide eyes. His gaze falls to the bowl I took the flour from, then back up to me. “I’m going to have to remeasure that.”
“You need to fucking relax,” I say.
His eyes somehow get wider. “I need to relax? Ty fucking Roscoe, telling me to relax?”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
“Oh, fuck you.” He rolls his eyes and lifts a hand to wipe the flour from his face. So I take this opportunity to dip my fingers in another bowl and flick a gooey batter at him when he’s not looking. It splatters all over his chest, and he freezes as he stares down at the mess on him.
“That was the perfect fucking amount for exactly twelve blueberry muffins.”
“Eleven and half now, I guess,” I say as I wipe my hands on a towel.
His eyes lift, and as they meet mine they flicker with anger.
Good. Fucker needs to get angry and get out of his head.
Except he reaches out and grabs the bowl I just took the batter from, and narrows his eyes at me.
I push off the counter as I eye the bowl in his hand. “Thought you needed that for muffins?”
“You started this,” he says darkly as he scoops out a large handful of batter. “What the fuck am I going to do with half a muffin, Ty?”
I step back, putting distance between us so he can’t smear it all over me. “Put it the fuck down, Mitchell.”
He shakes his head, stepping closer to me as an evil smirk spreads across his lips. “Not a fucking chance.”
Just as I turn to duck around the corner and escape the kitchen, he throws the batter and it lands right in the middle of my back.
I pause, closing my eyes to gather myself before I slowly turn to face him. He’s standing in the middle of the kitchen with his batter-covered hand, looking far too fucking proud of himself.
He watches me, his smile falling as I slowly approach him and reach for the bowl of flour. I grab a fistful, hold it up before him, and blow it all in his face.
We stand silently for a moment, glaring at each other until he suddenly drops the bowl of batter and tackles me to the ground. We hit the floor with a thump and he climbs on top of me as he tries to grab my wrist. I pull it away from him, but my elbow lands in the batter on the floor and slips as I try to roll us over. He takes this opportunity to swing his leg over that arm, moving to sit over my chest in a fucking high mount position. I only have one arm free, and I can’t move him at all with my hips.
I bring my free hand up to attempt a sweep, but he quickly grabs my wrist and pins it over my head.
And with a dangerous smile, he drags his other hand through the batter all over the floor.
“Fuck off, Mitchell,” I say as I try to pull my wrist from his grip, but he just holds me tighter.
“Hm,” he hums with a tilt of his head. “No.”
He slaps his batter-covered hand to the side of my face, slowly dragging it down my cheek.
I put everything I have into rolling my body so I can create space between his leg and my trapped arm. Once I do, I pull it out and grab his arm and roll him, so he is now lying in the batter smeared all over the floor. I quickly grab the bowl of flour and throw it on him, then stand up as he’s forced to raise his arms to block it from getting all over his face.
He pushes to his feet as well, as he wipes his face and glares at me. And he has me fucking cornered, because he’s blocking the exit.
He smirks, realizing this as well. “Come and get it, Tiger.”
I stare at him for a moment longer and decide to just go for it, right where it hurts.
