For the Love of Donuts

20. Push the Limits

Skye

I raise an eyebrow at Tatum’s doorbell. It honestly looks the same, which is why I’m having doubts that it’s not broken anymore. Even so, I press the button using my free hand that’s not holding a bag of takeout—and the doorbell rings like it used to.

Music to my ears .

A few seconds later, the door opens, and there’s Tatum. Why is he wearing a TANK TOP of all things? Why is the black material practically molded to his body? And why, oh why , can I see a faint outline of his abs?

His. Fricking. Abs.

And don’t even get me started on his arms.

The same arms you grabbed when you kissed him back .

Nope. Stop it. Stop it right now!

Stop thinking about that kiss! And stop ogling him!

He. Is. Your. Best. Friend.

Noted, but this laidback vibe he has going on right now is utterly distracting. He’s even wearing gray sweatpants and his weird purple socks with the little skulls on them.

“Pink Stuff?”

Oh crap, he was saying something to me. “Hmm?”

“I asked if you were satisfied with the doorbell,” he drawls, apparently not noticing my gawking.

“Oh, yeah,” I verbally wave him off. “The doorbell is fine. It’s wonderful.”

And there my eyes go again, studying his arms like they’re an exam I need to cram for.

I hold up the takeout bag. “I brought food!”

Totes casual, Skye. You’ve got this.

“BBQ Dudes?” He nods in approval before taking the paper bag from me. “I know that means you brought me an order of their macaroni salad.”

I did.

“They were all out.” I step into the house and close the front door behind me. “Tragic, huh?”

“Girl, don’t even play,” he tsks, setting the bag on his coffee table so he can rummage through everything. “You know I’m an ugly crier.”

And now he’s the one fibbing. I’ve never seen Tatum ugly-cry once. Not even when he lost his EK shirt.

“Aha!” He pulls out the foam container of macaroni salad and looks over his shoulder to grin at me. “You’re the best.”

The guy could sell toothpaste, no question.

I lift a shoulder. “I know. I didn’t get anything to drink though.”

“I got you,” he says, making his way to the kitchen. “Whatcha feeling?”

“Um, iced tea is fine if you have it.” I start unpacking everything else onto the coffee table. “Don’t worry about silverware, they gave us some plastic sets.”

Knowing we’ll end up sitting on the floor like we usually do, I go ahead and make myself comfortable. Soon he comes back over with two bottles of iced tea, and he sets them on the table before sitting cross-legged across from me.

“Thanks for getting the food.” He grabs his macaroni salad and a plastic utensil set. “Were they busy over there?”

I watch as his arm flexes while he unscrews the lids from both of our drinks. “Busy? No, not really.”

Actually, they were kind of busy now that I think about it, but I don’t bother correcting myself. Instead, I take my bottle of iced tea from him. “Thank you.”

“No prob.” He proceeds to groan before digging into the macaroni salad. “I’m so freaking glad you brought BBQ Dudes. I was thinking about it last week, but never got around to picking some up.”

“Well, I know it’s one of your faves, and I felt bad for mentioning you know what yesterday.”

I’m 100% positive there would be severe consequences if I said “tofu” out loud again.

“You did me dirty,” he states with a shake of his head, “but we’re good now. Who can be upset in the presence of macaroni salad?”

When his fork disappears into his mouth, I swear that I don’t mean to stare, but it just kind of happens anyway.

Like kissing him back did ?

Shut. Up.

Great, so now I’m staring at his mouth AND thinking about our kiss.

It’s wrong. It’s so wrong.

Which is why I attempt to distract myself by taking a few sips—fine, gulps —of my iced tea.

I need to look at something else…

NOT HIS ARMS, SKYE!

Get. It. Together.

After Tatum finishes chewing his food, he starts to say something, but I honestly can’t hear him. Why? Because he’s stretching his leg out beside me, and his socked foot makes contact with my elbow.

It’s a light brush.

Unintentional, I’m sure.

No big deal.

But my body reacts like I’ve just been electrocuted or something. My skin is buzzing, and I spill the freaking iced tea all over myself.

Yep, my new shirt has lovely cold amber liquid seeping through it. Thank God I decided against one of my pastel tops, otherwise Tatum would be getting an eyeful of my bra, and that would just be game over for me.

I’d never recover from embarrassment.

“Whoa!” Tatum sets his macaroni salad aside and takes the half-empty bottle of iced tea from me. “You okay?”

Obviously not. And I’m frustrated as heck because goosebumps are starting to spread, but I can’t tell if they’re from the iced tea or…something else.

Something else, as in HIM.

“I’m fine,” I lie, standing to my feet before he can offer to help me up. I can’t take any more physical contact right now. “At least it all landed on me, right? That’s good.” I laugh even though I’m dying on the inside. This is just ridiculous.

“I’ll get you a shirt to wear,” he says, getting up as well. “And then I can do a quick wash so it doesn’t stain.”

I’ve never worn one of his shirts before.

Doesn’t that seem more like a couple thing ?

We’re not a couple. We’re not even pretending to be a couple right now.

And yet, I don’t want to stay wearing my tea-soaked top. I also don’t want it to stain.

“Okay, thanks, Tate.”

“Of course,” he replies, already walking toward his room, “I honestly have a hamper of stuff that should get washed anyway. You’re keeping me responsible.”

I could remind him that I know he just did his laundry the other day, but I appreciate the way he’s trying to make me feel better about the whole thing, so I don’t say anything. I just drag my feet to the small hallway area and rest my back against the wall next to his room. A minute later, he comes out with a dark blue T-shirt.

“This one all right?” he asks, holding it out to me. “I know it’s going to be a little big, but—”

“That’s fine,” I interrupt, taking the shirt from him. Our fingers touch for a split second, and I’d like to pretend that I’m unaffected, but I am very affected. Warm sparks shoot up my arm without any warning.

“You can change in my room. Or the bathroom. Wherever you want.” He drags a hand over his head and steps around me. “I’m going to get everything ready in the laundry room.”

I wish I could say that I do the right thing.

But it doesn’t happen. I don’t do the right thing.

I don’t go straight to the bathroom so I can change out of my soaked top. Instead, I linger in the hallway and watch Tatum as he walks away. Rock climbing doesn’t do anything positive for my physique. But for Tatum? Rock climbing and those sweatpants seem to be doing a great job of making his backside look—

NO! Don’t you dare finish that thought!

Since when do you stare at Tatum’s butt?

I wasn’t trying to!

What is happening to me? Why can’t I stop myself from reacting this way toward him?

Things only get worse when I finally go to the bathroom and change tops.

I’m sniffing his shirt like a weirdo.

It smells like the cologne he was wearing on Monday but mixed with a clean, fresh scent.

That would be laundry detergent, genius.

Right. Well, either way, the shirt smells good.

Does it look good though? Eh. Maybe?

The shirt is covering my shorts, so it’s giving T-shirt dress vibes , but is that—

Wait a darn second.

I blink at my reflection.

Why the heck am I so worried about how I look? I never get self-conscious about what I look like when it comes to Tatum. I mean, he literally saw me a few months ago while I was super sick and looked like death, but I didn’t even care.

Sooooo, why am I worried about what he thinks now?

Tatum

While I debate with myself about checking on Skye—because the girl’s been MIA for a hot minute—she steps into the tiny laundry room looking like a dream. A dream that I can’t believe is my current reality.

The shirt is big on her, like I expected it to be, but I wasn’t prepared at all for how the shirt would look on her. Her shorts are hidden now, which makes her legs seem even longer, and I’m in a totally different headspace. A dangerous one. Because seeing Skye in my shirt is one thing; but seeing her in my shirt when it looks like she’s only wearing my shirt is…distracting.

The laundry room is getting tinier by the second.

“Tate? You good?”

You’re staring. Stop staring.

No, hold up. Remember the plan. You’ve been chilling in the friend zone too long, and it’s time to push the limits. Just enough, though, because we don’t need her freaking out like—

She asked you a question.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I tell her, patting the washer for some stupid reason. “Just getting this ready for you.”

“Thanks.” She takes another step forward, and now she’s right in front of me.

I’m a horrible person. I’m glad she spilled iced tea on herself.

“And thanks for the shirt, I’ll try my very best not to get anything on it.”

I chuckle before holding my pinky up. “Promise?”

Her eyes widen for a split second as she looks at my finger, and I can tell she’s hesitant.

But she pulled away too fast when our hands brushed in the hallway, and I want the feeling of her touch back again…just for a little bit longer.

Come on, Skye, it’s just a pinky promise. We’ve done it so many times. We just did it the other day.

As if hearing my silent plea, she nods before wrapping her pinky around mine. “Promise.”

I expect her to yank away again, but she doesn’t.

And neither do I.

Dang, I want to tell her so badly about how good she looks in my shirt.

I want to kiss her hand. And maybe her wrist. And then I could work my way up to her mouth. I’m dying to kiss that mouth again. But I settle for giving her pinky a light squeeze as I study her.

The way her lips are parted ever so slightly.

The tiny beauty mark on her lower cheek.

The curve of her nose.

Those long eyelashes…

“Tatum?” she asks, her voice quiet and her eyes curious. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Because I’m crazy about you. Because you’re beautiful.

The words are on the tip of my tongue…and yet? I’m honestly scared to say them. I’ve never been more scared in my life.

“Sorry,” I apologize, unlinking my finger from hers, “I was just thinking.”

I expect her to ask me what I was thinking about; and for a second, it looks like she might. But then she doesn’t.

I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.

She tucks a few pink waves behind her ear. “Is it okay for me to throw my top in the washer?”

And just like that, I’ve ruined the moment.

Great job, Tatum .

“That’s fine.” I step aside so she can have access to the washer, but we’re still in each other’s personal space. Her arm grazes against mine as she tosses her shirt into the machine, and I’m grateful she starts it up right away, because I need something to drown out the sound of my heart beating way too loudly.

I stare at the ceiling, a strong sense of déjà vu coming over me. It feels like we’re in that supply closet again. Except, the light is on and there’s no one else around. It’s just us. There’s no excuse to pretend like we’ve been making out.

I wish the light was off though. I wish we had an excuse to pretend like we’ve been making out. I wish we were making out.

Okay, Tate, I think you’ve pushed the limits enough for now.

Better stop before I get really hot and bothered.

“We should finish our food,” I force myself to say as I lower my eyes to meet hers. “The sandwiches are probably cold by now.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, moving away from the washer, “and we still need to do that wedding planning research too.”

She leads the way out of the laundry room, and I hit the light switch before closing the door behind us.

“I’m going to warm up the pulled pork sandwiches in the microwave.” Skye jabs a thumb over her shoulder. “And maybe you can grab your tablet or laptop, so we can start on the research?”

“Sounds good,” I reply, stepping around her, “I’ll get my tablet.”

It’s going to be easier to use while we’re eating, and—

“Hey, Tate?”

I pause and look back at her.” Yeah?”

“Um…” she trails off with creased eyebrows. “Nothing. Never mind.”

I’m not convinced though. “You sure?”

She honestly doesn’t look sure at all, and I’m dying to know if that’s because of me. Because of what just happened—and didn’t happen—between us in the laundry room.

“Yep,” she says, smacking her lips together, “I’m sure.”

Eventually, I know we’ll have to talk about what’s been going on with us, instead of skirting around it every freaking time. But we’re not ready for that yet.

“Okay,” Skye says, tapping away on my tablet, “this site has a list of what’s MOST important for wedding planning. So, we’ll just choose a few of them to use until the anniversary party happens.”

“Right.” I take a bite out of my sandwich. “Lay ’em on me. What are we looking at?”

“Floral arrangements?” She makes a face at the screen. “Boring. Seating arrangements? Even more boring.”

“Mmm!” I point a finger at her. “Food. Food’s gotta be on that list.”

“Yeah, there it is. Food and cake testing.” She looks up at me. “What if we just did cake testing though? And we could choose some different donut flavors too?”

“I can’t say no to dessert.”

Her eyes are wide and bright as she grins at me. “That means we’re TOTALLY having a donut wall!”

If this is what it would be like to plan a real wedding with Skye, sign me the heck up. She could have as many donut walls as she wanted.

“Let’s see what else they have listed,” she muses, turning her attention back to my tablet. “Wedding invitations? Heck no. A bachelorette party? Yeah, I don’t think that would be very appropriate for the blog.”

While she laughs at the option, I find myself clenching my jaw. What kind of bachelorette party is she imagining? Something with exotic male dancers everywhere?

The possibility makes my blood boil.

“I feel like décor would be lame to pick,” she drawls, unaware of my current internal turmoil. “Right? I mean—”

“Do you think you’d want a bachelorette party? If you ended up getting married for real?”

She blinks at me. “Uh, maybe? I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

That should ease my nerves at least a little bit, but it doesn’t.

I can’t let it go.

“Well, what would your ideal bachelorette party be like then? If you had one.”

“Why are you asking?” She raises an eyebrow before eating a spoonful of her coleslaw. “Are you planning on being the one who throws it for me?”

If that means I can prevent hunky, shirtless guys from being around her, then you can fricking bet I’ll be the one throwing her a dang bachelorette party. Of course, I’m expecting to marry her someday—so that would be a little odd—but I don’t care. I’m 100% okay with making sure her future bachelorette party is G-rated.

“Maybe,” I reply with a shrug. “I am your best friend, after all.”

Oh yeah, I’m pulling out the best friend card.

It’s necessary.

“Well—”

“What else is on the list?” I cut in again, desperate to change conversations. “We still need at least two more, right?”

“Yeah…” She looks back at the tablet. “Location? That could be fun.”

“It’d probably be easy, too. Pick a spot and snap some pictures? Totally doable.”

“So, we just need one more,” she mutters as I take a swig of my iced tea. “Not a wedding registry…that would get way too complicated. Same for choosing a wedding party.” Her eyes then widen, and her cheeks become flushed.

Call me crazy, but that’s an odd reaction to have toward a wedding registry or choosing a wedding party.

“Everything okay?” I set my bottle back on the coffee table. “You look spooked.”

“Shut up, no I don’t,” she says, touching both sides of her face. “I’m fine.”

“You’re blushing ,” I state the obvious. “What’s up?”

“Nothing!” she huffs with a scowl. “You’re being annoying.”

“And you’re being sus,” I tease, holding my hand out for the tablet. “Gimme.”

She shakes her head. “Tatum…”

“ Skye ,” I mimic her, extending my hand even more, “let me have it.”

She cusses under her breath before giving me the tablet and I click my tongue. “Did a weird ad come up? Or—”

But then I see what caused her reaction.

Honeymoon is listed as one of the “important parts” of wedding planning.

If we were engaged for real, I’d have to agree. Honeymoons are very important.

On a honeymoon, I’d finally be able to give that birthmark of hers the attention it deserves. I’d be able to give every single inch of her the attention she deserves. There wouldn’t be any holding back.

Thinking about this while she’s wearing one of my shirts is such a bad combo…

“You should’ve just let it go,” Skye grumbles as I force myself not to imagine anything else. “Now this is even more awkward.”

I flash her with a playful grin. “What? You don’t want to plan a fake honeymoon with your fake fiancé?”

That’s good, Tatum. Try to lighten the mood. Focus on humor instead of the bedroom .

STAY OUT OF THE BEDROOM!

“Next time, I’m bringing you a tofu burger.” She gives me a sassy look before snatching my tablet back. “We have enough to manage without planning a fake honeymoon too.”

“Well, what if someone from work or online asks about the honeymoon? What are you going to tell them?”

I know I’m treading on thin ice, but I’m willing to risk the plunge.

She offers a shrug. “I don’t know. What would your dream honeymoon destination be?”

With you. Only you.

“I’m not picky,” I say instead, “you know that.”

“True. No cruises, though, obviously. What about…” She taps her nails against the back of my tablet. “Alaska! You could take so many pretty pictures if you had a honeymoon in Alaska.”

The idea is so random. It’s so Skye. And I love it.

“Yeah, Alaska would be cool,” I agree with her. “Maybe that’s what I’ll do if my hypothetical future wife approves.”

“Dude, who could say no to Alaska?” she scoffs, turning her attention to my tablet again. “The Northern Lights are like, mega-romantic.”

She might not want to plan a fake honeymoon, but I think we just planned a possible real one.