—MEME

When Cookie marched me over to my apartment, box in hand, I was surprised she wasn’t dragging me by my ear. I felt like a child being led to my punishment. Or utter humiliation. Either way.

We walked in, and Reyes stopped what he was doing, which was basically cooking something—the scent almost dropping me to my knees—and regarded us with one sexy brow arched in question.

“We are settling this once and for all,” Cookie said matter-of-factly.

“Okay.” He said it cautiously, not sure how we were settling it, or possibly even what it was.

She headed to the living room and started rearranging the furniture. I rose slowly to my toes, trying to see what Reyes was cooking. It was definitely rich, definitely spicy, and definitely worth a slap on the wrist to risk a bite. Just like the chef himself.

He tilted his head as he watched Cookie work as I inched closer. Then he cast the same questioning gaze in my direction. I stopped and shrugged, pretending to be as flummoxed as he was. But Cookie took this stuff pretty seriously. We’d have to play along if only to appease her. I just wanted to know if I could eat first.

“Over here,” Cookie ordered, standing back to admire her setup. “Both of you. And you might want to turn off that stove, Mr. Farrow, before you take off your shoes.”

That answered that.

She only called Reyes Mr. Farrow when he was in trouble. Or at least I figured she only called him Mr. Farrow when he was in trouble. He’d never been in trouble before, and she’d never called him Mr. Farrow with quite that tone before, so I put two and two together. I was so good at math.

Reyes stepped from around the counter, already barefoot, and took in the scene. He didn’t seem particularly worried, but he’d probably never had this form of punishment before. He had no idea what he was getting himself into. It was excruciating and required the utmost concentration.

“Places,” she said, using her referee voice. She sat on our sofa, took her board, and spun the little arrow.

I slipped off my boots and shuffled over to the plastic tarp. The tarp, otherwise known as a torture mat, was covered in rows of bright circles. I stepped into my designated spots and waited for my opponent to do the same.

The moment of truth was upon us. Would Reyes scoff and refuse the game? Or would he take the challenge?

With humor playing about his full mouth, he stepped to the opposite side of the tarp and took his place among the circles.

He wore a gray T-shirt, loose except for the shirtsleeves, where his shoulders, the ones you could land a 747 on, and his biceps, the ones you could build a shopping mall on, stretched the fabric tight. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he lifted the hem of his shirt to hook his thumbs in his front pockets.

Cookie spun the arrow on her board and called out, “Left foot, red.”

We both stepped onto the next red circle with our left feet, Reyes turning his back to me, and waited for the next challenge. His wide shoulders tapered down to slim hips, the loose jeans curving around the half-moon of his ass. Even the backs of his arms were sexy.

“Left hand, green.”

Again, we both accepted the challenge, which was by no means easy for either of us. I grunted a little but stayed the course despite my most recent state of inebriation.

“Twister?” Reyes asked as though trying not to laugh.

“Long story,” I said. Twister was Cookie’s way of getting Amber and her cousins to stop fighting when she was younger. There was something about the challenge of trying to balance and twist and turn without falling that got them giggling like, well, children, and magically the fight would be over.

But what Reyes and I were going through was far worse than anything Amber and her cousins had fought over. We were way beyond Barbies and hair clips. At least Reyes was. I still had a tiny thing for both.

“Left hand, blue.”

We moved our left hands again, the position taking some of the strain off my medulla oblongata. Or whatever that tendon between the heel and calf was called.

“It looks like we are going to have some time if you want to explain,” he said, not even winded yet.

“I’d rather ask why you won’t talk to me.”

“Right foot, yellow.”

This was getting awkward. I felt like an orangutan at a gymnastics competition during a floor routine. But Reyes looked as though he were completely in his element. A predator sizing up his foe. A panther readying to strike. His eyes shimmered from underneath his long lashes. His muscles shifted and rolled with each movement. His long fingers steadied his weight, but just barely, as though he were balancing the lion’s share on the balls of his feet.