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A hint of pink touched her cheeks and she looked away. “Return of the King, which, by the way, I still have your copy of and I still plan on returning to you.”
“Sure,” he teased, like he didn’t believe her.
“And your shirt,” she added. “I still have that too.” She made a face. “Though Imightnot give it back.”
He barked a laugh. “Why not?”
“It’s really soft!” she defended with round eyes. “I’ve never had a shirt that soft and cozy. I wear it…often.”
His throat tightened at the idea of Zara wearing his shirt on the regular. Heat rushed through him and he took a slow breath. “You can keep it. I guess,” he said, sounding appropriately reluctant.
“Yeah?” she asked.
He nodded. Of course she could keep it. But he needed to change the subject before he said or did somethingverystupid. He stretched his leg out and tapped her shin with his toes. “Can I meet your family when they visit?”
“You want to?” she asked, surprised again.
Asa, you’re the dumbest boy in school.
He dipped his chin in affirmation.
“Okay,” she said, voice light. “I think they’d like to meet you too.”
The timer on the oven went off and she jumped down from the counter.
“These look perfect to me. What do you think?” she asked, holding out the sheet pan toward him. “You’re the cookie expert.”
He chuckled. “Those look great,” he said.
She turned and grabbed the spatula. He watched her carefully move them one at a time from the pan to the cooling rack.
“Where do you get your shirts?” she asked, her back turned to him. She set the pan down on the stove top to cool and took off the oven mitt.
Which shirt was he wearing? He glanced down.
Nice one, Ace.
It was pink and said “this is your mom’s shirt” in iridescent sequins.
Deciding to own it (because he did, in fact, literally own it), he shot her a wink. “I know a guy. Why? You want one?”
The laugh that rippled out of her hit him squarely in the chest. His smile grew large and he bit his lower lip. That laugh, her laugh, best sound ever.
“I love shirts like that,” she admitted. “But I don’t wear things with writing on them.” She blew raspberries and rolled her eyes. “I was told it would be bad for my image.”
“Right,” he said. “Because you alone have been the one holding up society.”
“If it crumbles, it’ll be my fault.”
They were smiling, but they weren’t joking. Because that’s how the world treated her.
Who she talked to, what she did, where she frequented, all of it was up for public discussion and dissection.
He read once that she had more power than the President of the United States. How fucked up was that?
No wonder she needed a break.
He was definitely getting her a shirt of her own. He had the perfect one in mind.
