For the Love of Donuts

14. Best Friends Don’t

Skye

“Why am I so nervous?”

I don’t get a response, though, because I’m asking Sprinkles. And last time I checked, my sweet bunny doesn’t know how to secretly talk like the dog from that one TV show I used to watch when I was a preteen.

“I shouldn’t be nervous,” I say, stroking her soft ears as she munches on her beloved cardboard. “It’s just a dumb fake photoshoot. And it’s not like I have camera-phobia .”

That’s a thing, right?

Well, I’m sure there’s a technical term for it, but whatever.

Am I even really nervous? I think I’m just still feeling a little unsettled.

The whole Lola thing this morning only made it worse. I may have implied to Tatum that her interest in him doesn’t bother me, but it does bother me—it bothers me BIG TIME.

That doesn’t mean I’m jealous though. Ha! Puh-leaseeee.

Tatum and I are best friends, why would I be jealous? I mean, I think anyone would be annoyed by Lola’s blatant flirting, especially since she’s way too young for Tatum.

So, yeah, I’m not jealous.

Case. Closed.

Sprinkles gives me an intense side-eye as I scoop her up and put her in the crate beside my bed. I try not to keep her locked up a lot, but I also don’t need her ransacking the apartment for more things to nibble on. I swear she’s part raccoon.

Tatum will be here any second.

I’m glad he offered to pick me up, because trying to transport the twins’ gift by myself would’ve been a scary sight to see. No amount of stretching would help me get a grip on the huge box. I was barely able to slide that sucker toward the apartment door.

Speaking of the door, sudden knocking fills the air, causing my eyebrows to crease in confusion. Tatum hasn’t texted me that he’s here. And the buzzer hasn’t gone off at all.

Maybe it’s not him.

Ugh, maybe it’s Grafe Turner again. He lives a few doors down from us and always complains about everything. I’ve thought about anonymously leaving a blank diary for him outside of his door, with a dedication that would say: Here you go, Grumpy Grafe. Complain away.

But knowing my luck, he’d find out it was from me, and who knows what would happen after that? What if he has secret connections that could ruin my life?!

And now I’m thinking like Anna, not a good sign.

Right, the door. A quick glance through the peephole tells me that it’s not Grafe, but it’s actually Tatum.

“Mrs. Nelson let me in,” he says once I open the door for him. “Unfortunately, I had to hear all about the cruise trip she’s been planning, and it was heavily implied that she’s looking for a travelling companion.”

I proceed to sigh. “Too bad you get seasick.”

He laughs, even though it wasn’t that funny, and then we just kind of look each other over.

In a platonic way, obviously. As friends.

Tatum takes in what I’m wearing. I take in what he’s wearing.

Instead of a button-down shirt like he wore yesterday, he has on a light gray henley shirt with three-quarter sleeves, and the first couple of buttons are undone, revealing a triangle-shaped sliver of his dark skin. Okay, well, I don’t know why I noticed that . Weird.

It’s also weird that I’m now noticing how the third button looks like it just wants to POP at any given second, so it can join the first two buttons in freedom.

What the actual—

“You look pretty.” Tatum slips his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans. “And you haven’t yawned yet, so that’s a good sign.”

This isn’t the first time Tatum has said I look pretty—we exchange compliments whenever it’s fitting—but for whatever reason, right now feels different. Probably because I’m dressed up for our fake engagement photoshoot, and that’s just odd.

“You look good yourself, bud.” I give him a playful shove in the arm. “I mean, you know, considering our situation.”

I’m sorry, what now ? Why the heck did I say it like that? And did I just call him bud ?

Tatum raises an eyebrow at me, the corner of his mouth tilting up some. “Oh yeah?”

Why is my heart doing that flip-flopping thing again? Someone make it stop!

“I’m just glad you’re not wearing that yellow sweatshirt,” I say, trying to redeem myself. I’m failing. After all, the yellow sweatshirt didn’t have a button straining against his chest to stay closed.

And I ask, YET AGAIN, why am I noticing that?!

“You can’t handle the yellow sweatshirt,” he scoffs, putting a hand up. Then he nods past me. “I’m assuming that wrapped box is the twins’ gift?”

I step aside and open the door a little wider. “I was thinking that maybe you could be in charge of carrying it again?”

“I see how it is,” he drawls, coming inside to grab the box, “you’re only using me for my muscles.”

In this moment, call me Mrs. Nelson, because my eyes seem very intent on staring at Tatum’s arms as he lifts the box up.

Tight. His arms look tight .

Yeah, I’m convinced his shirt is a size too small. The doof bought himself the wrong size. And yet, he doesn’t look the slightest bit uncomfortable.

“You coming, Carson?” he asks, going back into the hallway. “You’re zoning out on me, girl.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” I grab my purse before joining him. “And I wasn’t zoning out.”

“Mmhmm,” he muses as I lock the apartment door. “So, listen, the box of donuts is in the passenger seat—which means you can’t just throw yourself into my car, all right?”

I almost shriek with happiness. “Ooh, a donut sounds SO good right now!”

“Uh-uh. You can eat as many of them as you want after we take the pictures. Not. Before. Open one of those exit doors for me, wouldja?”

I do open the door for him, but not without frowning, because I really want a donut.

“Don’t be a baby about it, Skye,” he says, walking out of the building. “We need all of the donuts for this photoshoot.”

“Fine,” I grumble, stepping outside too, “I’ll suffer and wait.”

Realization then hits me that his shirt looks even tighter stretched across his back. It’s like a second freaking skin! How? Just how ?

I. Can. See. His. Shoulder. Blades.

“Skye? I need the key. Can you get it out of my pocket?”

I practically choke. “W-what?”

“The key for my car,” he says, tilting his left hip toward me, “can you grab it for me?”

No, I can’t.

I can’t do it.

I’ve been staring at your chest, and your arms, and your back—which means that putting MY hand into YOUR pocket would be a horrible idea.

“Sure thing!” I blurt out, pushing aside my minor freak-out.

I slip my hand into his pocket—well aware that my arm is brushing against his side, which shouldn’t matter, but it does—and I yank his key ring out as fast as I can without trying to make it obvious. I’m pretty proud of myself.

But then I notice how good he smells. It’s a familiar scent.

Sandalwood and lavender.

The cologne I told him to buy last time we were at the mall. He’s wearing it. Now, why the HECK did I insist on him buying a cologne that smells so freaking amazing?

“Pink Stuff,” he whines, snapping me out of my cologne-induced coma, “can you maybe unlock the car sometime today? Before my arms decide to fall off and I lose my photography career!”

“Drama queen,” I mutter, striding ahead of him to unlock his car and open the trunk door.

He appears beside me, sliding the present into the car, and his arm muscles are doing alllll kinds of flexing as he does so. I think there’s something trippy in his cologne that’s causing me to have irrational thoughts.

I need to get away from him.

Except, I can’t get away from him.

Why? Oh, that’s right! Because we’re driving together to have a FAKE ENGAGEMENT PHOTOSHOOT. What even is my life right now?

As I give Tatum the key ring, my fingers graze his, and a static-like feeling zaps through me.

I hold back a panicked gasp.

Stop it, Skye! They’re just fingers!

Even so, I turn on my heel, more than ready to hide in the car.

Maybe they’re just fingers, but—

“Hold it,” Tatum says, and I can hear him closing the trunk door. “We need to talk.”

Did my pulse just quicken? Why? Why would it do that?

“We do?” I force myself to face him again. “About what?”

“Are you okay?” His voice is laced with concern as he watches me expectantly. “You seem distracted. What’s up?”

What’s up ? How am I supposed to know? One second everything is fine, but then I’m acting jealous of Lola? And I’m checking out my best friend? Make it make sense, because I just can’t.

“I don’t know,” I tell him in all honesty.

“Well, are we okay?” His eyebrows crease. “Did I do something wrong? Or…?”

Nope, if anything I’m the one who’s doing something wrong.

Best friends don’t check each other out.

Best friends don’t overanalyze how the other person smells.

Best friends don’t get weird about fingers touching.

Side note: the word “fingers” is now hurting my brain.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I assure him, sliding my palms against the sides of my dress. “I guess I’m just feeling a little off today.” Needing things to go back to normal, I let out an overbearing sigh. “If only I could eat one of those donuts, I’m sure that would help. I desperately need sugar.”

I even throw the back of my hand against my forehead for that extra flair.

He proceeds to chuckle. “Girl, the best I can do is a stick of gum, but it’s yours if you want it.”

“A stick of gum would be nice…” I walk over to the passenger door. “It’s not the cinnamon-flavored kind though, is it?”

He doesn’t answer me.

And once I’m settled in his car with the box of donuts on my lap, I know exactly why he didn’t answer me. The gum IS cinnamon-flavored. Bleh. So gross.

I decide to chomp on it anyway, but I also make sure to scold him because this darn gum has my mouth burning like it’s The Eye of Sauron. I don’t know how Tatum tolerates the stuff.

“Send me a reminder text.” He sets the package of gum aside before turning the car on. “I’ll make sure to restock mint-flavored gum, so you won’t have to be in agony next time.”

“Thank you,” I say with a huff, and then I text him using at least five pleading face emojis for good measure.

He starts to back out of the parking space. “Of course. Happily engaged couple, right?”

I don’t acknowledge him, though, because I’m hyper-fixated on the way that his hand is gripping the passenger seat near my neck. People generally do that when they’re backing out, and Tatum has done it countless times, but my neck is getting hot again like it did in the supply closet.

Even without him touching me.

I mean, not that Tatum touching me makes me hot. Wait, what ?

Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh.

Tate would be scarred for life if he could read my mind right now.

Thank God, he can’t.

I chew the stupid cinnamon gum faster and faster, making sure that I’m not looking at Tatum as he moves his hand away and drives out of the parking lot.

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.