Chapter 23

“Fucking hell!” Coach thunders, lunging toward the oven.

I’m not sure what stops me from just throwing the door closed. Probably the thick cloud of smoke pouring out and distorting my field of vision.

“Oh my God! Dad! THIS IS WHY I DON’T LET YOU COOK!”

Brenna bursts into the kitchen shouting over the piercing alarm with her hands over her ears, just as Coach grabs an oven mitt and picks up the roasting dish, burning his other hand.

He jolts, tilting the tray, which splashes scalding hot juices onto the bottom of the oven that ignite on the red-hot heating element.

Flames burst out of the ferocious black mouth.

While Brenna runs her dad’s hand under the cold faucet, I heroically beat the flames back with the dishrag, trying to get close enough to shut the damn door. But the heat is almost suffocating and the fire is only getting bigger.

“Babe, move,” someone orders, and suddenly Taylor rushes in front of me and tosses a heap of mashed potatoes on the source of the flare-up.

The oven coughs out a plume of smoke and we all rush outside to the sound of the fire engine approaching and the sight of red lights bouncing off the trees.

“Who’s up for Thai, am I right?”

“Not now, Brenna,” growls Coach. Cradling his injured hand, he watches as firefighters run into the house to survey the situation.

The flashing lights twinkle across the worry on Iris Marsh’s face. She pries Coach’s hand from his chest to inspect the damage.

“Oh, Chad. You should get the EMTs to look at that.”

Before he can protest, she waves her hand and a woman with a big duffel bag comes rushing over to tend to his burns.

Beside me, Taylor entwines her fingers with mine and cradles my arm for warmth. We’re pathetic, a shivering and embarrassed spectacle on the front lawn of 42 Manchester Road. Neighbors peer out their windows and stand in their driveways wondering what the commotion’s all about.

“I’m sorry, Coach,” I tell him, wincing at his red palm. “I should’ve tried to close the oven door.”

He barely flinches while the EMT pokes at his burn. “Not your fault, Edwards. Turns out I’m the dumbass.”

“You know,” Iris says, “Thai sounds great.”

A couple hours later, we’re the last ones in the Thai restaurant that just reopened a few months ago after—appropriately—a fire.

Coach has ditched his coat, Taylor let me leave my tie in the Jeep, and Brenna is still wearing the bright red lipstick she dons for all occasions.

“I appreciate the quick thinking,” Coach tells Taylor while reaching for another spring roll with his good hand. The other one is now bandaged up like a boxing glove.

“I don’t know what made me go for the potatoes,” she says sheepishly. “I went in there thinking about looking under the sink for a fire extinguisher. That’s where they always put them in apartments. But then I saw the bowl of potatoes and was, like, let’s see what happens.”

“I might have killed us all,” he says, laughing at himself. “Good thing you were there.”

The damage to the Jensen kitchen wasn’t too bad, thankfully. Scorch marks being the worst of it. It’ll be a hell of a mess to clean up after the firefighters went in there to make sure it didn’t flare up again, but I told Coach I’d get the guys to come help out after the insurance people have their say.

“Taylor’s experienced with all sorts of pyrotechnic disasters,” Iris informs the group.

“Mom, please.”

“Really?” I slide a glance at Taylor, who’s slumping down in her seat. “Was she setting these fires?”

“There was a period of, I don’t know”—Iris mulls it over—“maybe two or three years from elementary to middle school when I’d be in my office grading papers or in the living room reading, while Taylor was in her room with the door closed. A terrible sense of quiet would descend over the house just before the smoke alarm went off, and I’d rush upstairs with a fire extinguisher to find a new charred hole in the carpet and a puddle of melted Barbie dolls.”

“She’s exaggerating.” Taylor smirks despite herself. “Mom, you’re so dramatic. Change of topic, please.”

“No way,” I object. “I want to hear more about the pyro-anarchist of Cambridge.”

Taylor smacks my arm, but Iris accepts the invitation to elaborate about the time her tiny blonde terror got sent home early from a slumber party for setting another girl’s pajamas on fire.

“They were barely singed,” Taylor insists.

“With her still in them,” Iris finishes.

Coach starts in on a “that reminds me of the time” about Brenna, which she somehow deflects toward me and the team. But I’m not paying attention anymore. I’m too busy copping a feel of Taylor’s thigh, because something about the idea of her being the menace of the quiet shady streets of Ivy Lane gets me a little hard.

“I’d like to know…” Brenna takes a performative sip of water from her glass because I guess it’s been five whole minutes since she was the center of attention and if boredom sets in, she self-destructs. “What your intentions are, young man, with our dear daughter.” Brenna’s dark eyes take on an evil gleam as she scrutinizes me.

“Excellent question,” Taylor’s mom agrees. Iris and Brenna have nearly polished off their second bottle of wine and at this point have created an unholy alliance I don’t believe I’m comfortable with.

“Oh, we just met tonight,” I say, winking at Taylor.

“Yeah, he was my Uber driver.”

“She was like, listen, this is going to sound crazy, but my incredibly rich and eccentric great-uncle died and in order to get my share of the inheritance I have to show up to this family dinner with a boyfriend.”

“And at first he said no,” Taylor adds, “because he’s a man of honor and integrity.”

Coach snorts.

“But then she started crying and it got awkward.”

“So finally he agreed, but only if I’d give him a five-star review.”

“What about you two crazy kids?” I say to Coach. “You being safe?”

“Don’t push it, Edwards.”

“No, he’s right, Dad.” Evil Brenna is on my side now. I prefer it this way. “I know it’s been a while since we had the talk, so…”

“Don’t start,” he grumbles at Brenna, although Taylor laughs and Iris seems blissfully unbothered.

Taylor hadn’t told me much about her mother beyond what she did for a living and that they were close. So I wasn’t expecting a woman still showing glimpses of strutting through the streets of Boston in a leather jacket and Sid and Nancy shirt with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. A punk rock PhD. She’s very attractive, her eyes and hair the same shade as Taylor’s. But her features are sharper—high cheekbones, a delicate chin. Not to mention, tall and runway-model thin. I can understand where Taylor gets some of her insecurities.

“There was this one time…” Brenna starts in again, and I tune her out, my gaze sliding to Taylor.

She has no reason to feel insecure. She’s gorgeous. I don’t know, sometimes I just look at her and it hits me all over again. How hot she makes me, how badly I want her.

My hand’s still in her lap, and suddenly I’m acutely aware that we didn’t get any time to fool around before I picked her up for dinner because we both had homework to finish and she was running a little behind getting ready.

I inch my hand up, just a little. Taylor doesn’t look at me, doesn’t flinch. Her thighs squeeze together. At first, I think I’ve overstepped, but then…she spreads them. Inviting my hand to roam higher.

Brenna is spinning some embellished bullshit about her internship at ESPN and some fight that broke out among a couple of the football commentators, keeping the parents entertained, while my fingers wander under the hem of Taylor’s skirt. I’m careful, methodical. Taking care not to make myself conspicuous.

As Brenna makes grand hand gestures and rattles the table with her story, my fingertips brush the fabric of Taylor’s panties. Silk and lace. Jesus, that’s so hot. She shivers, just a little, under my touch.

Swallowing the saliva that suddenly fills my mouth, I slide my palm over her covered pussy and holy fuck I can feel how wet she is through her underwear. I want to slip my fingers inside and—

I yank my hand back when the waiter suddenly appears and places the check on the table.

As everyone jumps into the dance of fighting for the bill. I sneak a peek at Taylor to see her eyes glinting with mischief. I don’t know how she does it, but this girl constantly finds ways to surprise me. Letting me feel her up under the table isn’t something I thought I’d find in her playbook, but I love that this side of her exists.

“Thank you,” she says after we’ve all said goodnight and are heading for our respective vehicles.

“For what?” My tone is a bit husky.

“Being here for me.” Gripping my arm as we walk to the Jeep, she gets up on her toes to kiss me. “Now let’s go back to my place and finish what you started in the restaurant.”