Starlee's Turn (The Wayward Sons 2)

“Pear hand pies.”

“What’s a hand pie?”

He shows me a sketch on the recipe. It’s like a small square pastry pocket, edges crimped and I’m sure filled with delicious, fruity, sugary amazingness.

“Looks good.”

“I think they’ll taste good, too.” He nods at the rack behind the door. “Grab an apron.”

I find a clean white one. It has George’s name tag on it and I have to wrap the belt around my waist twice. At the work table Dex leans over and kisses me. There’s a touch of sugar on his lips.

“What’s the name of this creation?”

“I haven’t made one up yet. Let me know if you have any suggestions.”

I stare at him.

“What?”

“No pressure or anything.”

He laughs, kisses me again and hands me a tool. “Can you peel the pears?”

“I can try.” I take the peeler and move in front of the bucket of pears. There’s a large bowl waiting to be filled. “I’m not sure they’ll be pretty.”

“No one cares what they look like—not on the inside, anyway. And be careful, that thing is sharp. George sliced half his finger off once.”

“Is that why you asked me to help?

He glances up at me from the thin sheet of pastry dough he’s rolled out across the table. “One of the reasons. You look way sexier in that apron than he does.”

I want to pretend my cheeks heat up because the ovens are on, but I know it’s because of his words. There’s a lingering tension between Dexter and I—we had sex over the summer but not again. There hasn’t been time or really opportunity. Also? He hasn’t tried.

Even now we’re multi-tasking, cutting pears, rolling dough and going over AP History. For some reason our teacher decided the Friday before homecoming was a great day to have a test, so we alternate asking questions.

“What principles were established in Brown vs. Board of Education Topeka?” I ask the final question on the study guide. A pear landed on it a minute ago and now it’s sticky.

“The separation of students by race is unconstitutional,” he answers without a blink.

I finish my last pear and drop it in the bowl with the others. Together we cut them, and I watch as Dexter mixes the sugar, butter, cinnamon, and all the other spices he uses to make the filling. One by one, I ladle the sticky goodness on the pastry and he creates each one by hand, moving quickly and efficiently until all the baking sheets are loaded with mini square pies.

He slips in the first three sheets and then sets the timer. “What do we do now?” I ask.

His eyebrow quirks. “I have a few ideas on how we can kill twenty minutes.”

I lean against the refrigerator and reach for a cloth to wipe off my sticky hands. “More homework?”

“Definitely not more homework.” He closes the distance between us and takes the cloth out of my hand. He lifts my fingers, still sticky, and kisses the pads, then licks them.

“Twenty minutes?” I say, feeling the heat run down my limbs.

“Nineteen.” He moves from my fingertips to my mouth and his stubble tears at my skin, but I don’t mind. I like it. I like him, and I’ve missed having time together.

It’s like the one time we were together taught our bodies something—they react to one another knowing what the result could be. My knees shake underneath me and he presses us against the refrigerator. I love the weight of his body against mine. The hardness of it. The confidence.

We kiss until we’re breathing heavy, until the first timer goes off and the second set of pies goes in. We make out while inhaling the heady scent of pastry but I’m not sure what is making my head spin more, the sugar or his mouth.

The room grows hot and we’re both sticky. He kisses me over and over. My body aches and I know with absolute certainty that he wants me too, at least physically. I finally ask, “Are we ever going to, you know…?”