Hi everyone, sorry I didn't upload for a while, I've been kinda busy. Thank you all for the kind reviews so far! I don't really think this story's good anymore, though. Do you think I'm dragging it on for too long? Anyway, let's go!
I had tried to deny the feeling, but I when I meet his steady gaze, I realize that the truth was inevitable. I don't remember ever feeling this attracted to anyone in my entire seventeen years of existence.
His silver, wide-spaced eyes are a darker shade than I've ever seen them, and my fingers are aching to run themselves through his soft, downy hair. However, the main part of him that I'm focusing on is his mouth. It's light pink, with a thin upper lip and a fuller lower lip, still shiny from when his tongue slid over it, and crap, he's doing it again, his tiny pink tongue darting out to snake over his lips.
At that moment, I know I'm screwed.
Jem Carstairs! I'm sexually attracted to Jem Carstairs! My parabatai and a fellow male! Am I gay? By the Angel, he's making me have an identity crisis on the kitchen floor, I-
With a jolt, I realize that I'm still straddling him on the Charlotte's marble floor. He stares as I quickly roll off him and jump back up. A smile plays on the corners of his mouth, so small I almost missed it.
"Will, are you okay?"
No, I wasn't "okay"! I have just accepted the fact that I find my best friend super hot and attractive and that I want to kiss him until his lips are numb! This situation is far from being "okay"!
"Yeah, I'm fine. Let's bake some cookies."
"Okay, so the recipe says to preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Can you do that while I mix together the ingredients?"
I nod, and walk over to turn the knob on the oven. I turn back to see Jem pouring in the flour and baking soda, a look of adorable concentration on his face as he measures out the right amount to put in. I go back to him and grab the sugar, butter, and the egg. I mix the ingredients together in one of the colorful plastic bowls Charlotte keeps in her cabinets.
While I'm mixing, I sneak secret glances at Jem. He has a blissful smile on his face as he combines the flour, baking soda, and baking powder together. I feel an answering smile stretch across my own face.
Who knew he liked baking so much? He's so cute. A hot blush creeps up my neck a second after the thought pops up in my mind. I sigh, and turn back to the bowl, beating in the egg and the vanilla.
Jem and I combine the mixed ingredients, producing a huge, pale dough ball.
"It's beautiful." Jem jokes, as he pats the monstrous lump of dough tenderly with one hand, wiping an imaginary tear out of his eye with the other.
I smile, gazing down at the dough with admiration. Then I put on a face of mock alarm.
"Jem, I think I see an eggshell in the dough!"
"What?" he frets, hunching over his precious dough glob, searching for that dratted piece of eggshell that wasn't actually there. In a smooth motion, I plant my hand on the back of his head, and smash his face into the bowl.
"Ha!" I cackle, my laughter filling up the kitchen. I release his head, and Jem emerges, his face covered in dough paste and residue flour.
"Will, I hate you!" he yells, though he's laughing. All of the sudden, he reaches down to the counter and grabs a handful of baking soda, throwing it at my face.
"Hey!" I shriek, shaking out my hair so that white powder flies all over the kitchen floor. Jem laughs harder at that, and his laughter makes my chest feel tight and I have to physically fight the urge to walk over to him right at that moment, grab his face in my hands, and kiss him. But I can't do that, because he's Jem, and he's too good for me and I know he doesn't feel the same way.
I grab a piece of butter and fling it at his face. At the same time, he snatches a handful of sugar and tosses it at my chest.
And then we're shouting and laughing and howling, throwing various baking ingredients at each other until we both resemble furry white yetis from the Himalayas.
And after the Great Food Battle is over, and Jem makes me help him clean up the kitchen before Charlotte comes home and has a heart attack, I sneak more secret glances at him, admiring the way the white flour settled on his hair like snow, the way his long elegant fingers delicately pick off eggshells from the floor, and the smear of butter that is still on his face, dangerously close to his mouth. I have to force down the urge to walk over to him and wipe it off with my lips.