I chuckle. “No worries. This is when I get to put all that weightlifting and cardio to practical use.”
There’s a snapping noise behind me. “I knew it! I knew you weightlifted.”
As I make my way to the second flight of stairs, I feel her pat my ass.
“Squats, right?”
I laugh. “You guessed it.”
“Seriously, you’ve got the perfect squat butt. Your butt could be in magazines. And damn, you’re not even breaking a sweat while carrying me up these steps. Wowzers, Gage. Like, major wowzers.”
I’m laughing so hard, I have to stop walking and grip the railing right before hitting the third floor. Hearing sweet Becca talk about my ass so matter-of-factly is the most precious and wholesome thing I’ve ever heard, and it’s freaking hilarious given she’d never, ever talk about what my ass looks like when she’s sober.
“Shoot, am I too heavy?” she says.
“No,” I say through a laugh. “You’re making me laugh so damn hard with all your talk about the perfect squat butt. I need to catch my breath.”
“Oh.” She giggles.
“One more flight of stairs. You ready?”
“I’m ready. Promise I won’t talk about your butt anymore.”
When I reach the third floor, I set her down. I unlock the door to her apartment and watch as she kicks off her shoes and drops her purse on the ground. I leave my sneakers next to hers, then follow her into the kitchen.
“I need a snack. Then bed.”
She wobbles as she walks to the refrigerator, so I gently grab her hand and lead her to sit on a stool by her kitchen counter.
“Why don’t you let me make you something?”
She blinks, her eyelids droopy with fatigue. “Mmm, yes, okay.”
I fetch her a glass of water. “Drink this first.”
She guzzles the water while I dig through the contents of her fridges.
“Just to warn you, I don’t have anything fancy in there. Nothing that you could cook one of your famous gourmet meals with.”
“No worries. I’ll figure something out.” It’s slim pickings in Becca’s fridge: loads of condiments but not much else. Just half a loaf of bread, butter, cheese, some celery, half a tomato, coffee creamer, and something in a Tupperware container that looks like it should have been thrown out days ago.
I twist around to check on her. “Grilled cheese?”
In a blink her eyes go from sleepy to wide and bright. She grins and nods.
Five minutes later I set a crispy and hot grilled cheese in front of her. Before I can even sit down with my own sandwich, she’s taken two giant bites out of hers.
“Oh my gahhhh, Gage!” she says with her mouth full. “Best grilled cheese ever! Why have I never thought to add sliced tomatoes to my grilled cheese sandwiches before?”
“Now you know.” I take a bite of my sandwich and swallow.
“This is the only way I want to eat grilled cheese now.”
“With tomato?”
She quirks her eyebrow and shakes her head. “You making them for me.”
There’s a strange feeling in my chest. A fluttering sensation. I let myself imagine what it would be like to do this—to cook for Becca, to make her favorite grilled cheese sandwich after a long day of working at her ice cream shop, to cuddle with her on her couch while watching a movie together.
