It’s more of a process than you’d think, confirming the girth and length of a shipment of sausages. This delivery kid is thorough, asking Valentine to look at every single one of the wrapped packages in the crates along with him. “Yes,” she says, again and again. “This matches with the original order. I’m sure Gerald will be very pleased.”

“The nice thing is,” he says, “when the sausages are thick like this, they really fill out a breakfast plate. It’s not some kind of—” He looks to the ceiling like he’s searching for the right words. “There’s not a big empty hole between the pancakes and the eggs. Know what I mean?”

Valentine stares at him, open-mouthed. “I mean,” she says, and the kid looks up from the crates, the expression on his face on the verge of being super worried that something is fucked up with these sausages. “You can’t possibly...” her voice trails off, and I see it on her face, the moment she realizes that this delivery guy is sincere in his desire to make sure every one of these thick sausages is up to snuff. “You know what? These are great.” Valentine’s voice leaves no room for argument.

“Are you sure?” He gestures to the last two crates. “There are two more that we could—”

“No.” She raises a hand, the universal sign to shut the fuck up and get out of the restaurant. I’m in total agreement. I want to be done with the sausages, hilarious as they are, and get back to the sexy spicy summer fling portion of the evening. “This delivery is absolutely perfect—” She squints her eyes, reading his nametag. “Nick. You are free to go.”

“Okay,” he says, hesitating. “But I just need to make sure that—”

“Nick.” Valentine is breathing in a very very calculated manner now, like she might explode if Nick doesn’t get the hell out of the Short Stack and leave us alone. “Everything is fine. You will not be in trouble if one of these sausages is...damaged, somehow.” Even through her need to get him out of here, she can’t quite contain her laughter when she says the word sausages. It’s too much, really. “I will take full responsibility for all of the sausages.”

Nick glances toward the door. He probably has somewhere to be, a nice guy like Nick. Some sweet girlfriend who doesn’t mind that he delivers truckloads of sausages for a living. He’ll probably turn out to be an investment banker or some shit, later in life. He has that kind of face. No, I’m wrong. He’s way too earnest to be an investment banker. But the sweet girlfriend? I’ll be damned if I’m wrong about that.

“Okay,” Nick says again, and this time he adjusts his cap, puts his clipboard down at his side, and moves toward the door at a fucking snail’s pace. 

Valentine can’t stand it.

She steps in front of him, yanking the door open, and puts her hand on his shoulders. 

“Whoa,” says Nick, but Valentine doesn’t let up. She guides him out the door. “Let me know if anything isn’t satisfactory. You can contact me at—”

Valentine slams the door, leaving Nick reciting his email for nobody.

She turns back to me, eyes blazing with heat. 

“I’m done with this shit,” she says, and in one fluid motion strips her shirt over her head.

I can’t help but let out a laugh. “Don’t you think that this is a sign of—”

“I don’t believe in signs,” Valentine spits, and then she pounces.

She literally comes at me through the air, and it’s only by the grace of the entire fucking universe that I manage to brace myself for her weight at the last second. Still, the force of it sends us toward the floor. On the way down, out of habit, I stick my hand out. The way we were standing, just next to the prep area, means that I catch a bag of flour with my fingertips.

A bag of flour. What the hell is that doing there?

I’m still considering it when the bag falls one second after we do, hitting the ground and exploding.

Flour flies up and out in every single direction like a bomb, and for a second my stomach twists at the sight of it. But I’m still focused on taking the impact of the floor away from Valentine. I’m so focused on it that it takes me a few extra moments to realize that we’ve already landed, that the flour flying through the air is the only thing that hasn’t settled on the tile floors yet. 

Valentine is in my arms, her mouth a perfect O, her hair white with flour. Everything is covered. I swallow the last of my panic, the last of the nightmare, and let the laughter take over.

Valentine isn’t laughing. She presses her lips into a thin line and then pushes up into a sitting position, straddling my hips. Only she’s fucking covered in flour. So am I. There’s absolutely no way we’re turning this into a sexy interlude anymore. 

She tilts her head back, looking toward the sky, then raises two fists.

“No!” she cries, shaking them at the sky, the floor, the demolished bag of flour. “Damn it! I was so close!”

* * *

Valentine steps out of my shower, raising the towel to her hair and rubbing the excess water out of it. Then she examines the ends. “I think it’s all out. Ugh.”

I come over and assess the situation. “I think it’s all out, too.”

It’s a quiet, peaceful moment, a haven in the midst of exploding bags of flour and sausage deliveries. The bathroom is hot and humid, but there was no way in hell I was going to let Valentine step out of that shower by herself.

We don’t need any more slips and falls.

She wraps a second towel around her waist and looks up at me, her hair falling in a wet sheet over her shoulders. “Okay,” she says finally. “I think I’m ready to move on.”

My gut plummets to the floor. Move on from what? Our fling? It’s barely started yet.

“I don’t want to talk any more about what happened at the restaurant tonight,” she continues, looking me straight in the eye. “I don’t want to hear any more about how being too into a person can cause accidents.”

I nod solemnly, a warmth blooming in my chest at her serious tone. “No more jokes.”

“No more jokes,” Valentine echoes. “I’m done with all the jokes. I’m done with running away.” She straightens her back. “If we’re going to have a fling so hot it can burn my mouth off, then I want to do that. I want to actually do it.” 

I move toward her, finding the edge of the towel, and unwrap it. It hits the floor with a muted whisper. “Right now?”

“Right now,” says Valentine.

I scoop her up into my arms and head for the bedroom.