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Spruce’s Own Football Star Heart Throb
Here’s the thing about Tanner Strong, Spruce’s own football star heart throb: he always gets what he wants.
And is damned near impossible to stay mad at.
It was our first morning spent in our house that I learned that fact, seven and a half years ago, back when I could still smell the fresh plaster and wood in every freshly-painted room. Forget the marshmallow nightstand with one working drawer; we barely hadanyfurniture to speak of back then. But I took command of the kitchen—the culinary-degree-bearing artist of pastries and tasties that I am—and set out to make waffles for breakfast.
Tanner, who just rose from the cozy fold-out couch (we didn’t have a bed yet), made the cutest face when he strutted into the kitchen and asked, “What’s with the iron? I thought we were doin’ pancakes, babe!”
“Waffles,” I insisted with sass as I gathered all the ingredients, opting to make the batter from scratch, of course, no boxed mixes. “I’m in my zone. Got a vision. I’ve dreamed of our first breakfast in this house for months and months while it was being built.”
“That’s awful funny.” He sauntered further into the kitchen. “‘CauseIhad visions,too, for months and months. They involved a tallstackwith melted butter and syrupoozin’down the sides.”
“You canoozeall the butter and syrup you want overwaffles, too,” I tossed right back, then poked him in the ribs with my long, wooden spoon, getting a giggle out of this full-grown man. “Out of the kitchen. I’ll let you know when they’re ready.”
“Oh, you can’t get rid of methateasily.” Before I knew it, he trapped me in his arms with a vicious tickle attack I was in no way prepared for. “Pancake Monster Hug!” I had no idea what the hell kind of monster that was, but I dropped the spoon on the floor and exploded into teary-eyed cackling. “Pancake Monster ishungryfor tickles!” Then we found ourselves on the floor, and things grew tenderer. He stroked my hair, smiling. “Funny, how we each want something different, but both are made from the same stuff.”
“You can make your own dang pancakes, Mr. Strong,” I spat at him through a breathless laugh.
“That’sTucker-Strong now,” he corrected me.
“But I’m gonna make these gourmet-as-fuck waffles just the way I’ve envisioned them, and our dining room table is gonna look pretty enough for a magazine cover.”
“Dunno how to break it to ya, but we don’t have a table yet.”
“Kitchen counter. Down on these clean-ass floors. Wherever we want.”
He kissed the tip of my nose suddenly, causing me to recoil in confusion. “You look so cute when you’re mad. Mind if I make you mad more often?”
I scowled playfully at him. “Pancake Monster better let me up off this floor before I serve his waffles on top of his head.”
He grinned at that, then became a prince at once, rising up and lifting me to my feet like I weighed nothing. He always used to do that, boasting his football strength in such sweet, modest ways, like his muscles are an accident and his power was all for me.
“Guess I’ll leave you to your magic,” he decided with a smirk, kissed me again, this time properly on the lips. “I’ll put on some music for atmosphere. Is that part of your waffle vision? Music? And does it include us dancin’ afterwards … naked?” He winked at me, reached down to give my tushie a squeeze and a slap, then sauntered off to the living room to blast his latest band he was obsessed with, a new band every week back then.
When a familiar song came on that he’d played a thousand times, I smiled to myself, humming along as I continued to make my special batter. Tanner was in the living room doing this totally ridiculous dance in a pair of tighty-whities I’m ashamed to say was actually sexy, even if I couldn’t stop laughing.
And wouldn’t you know it, I was so distracted, it wasn’t until the first batch was halfway done that I realized I accidentally made pancakes instead of waffles.
That man always gets his way.
Just as true now as then.
And not because he forces it. But because somehow, with that irresistible Tanner Strong charm he’s so known for, he makes you want what he wants, too.
Admittedly, those pancakes were to fucking die for.
I’m still thinking about them when we return home after the dinner. Marcus and Joshua are wound up on sugary pastries and cake—which I happened to bake and bring over, adding an irony to the situation—and the two can’t be put to bed to save our lives. “Just let them,” I sigh as I walk past the four-legged marshmallow and into the bathroom to wash my face. I sweat a lot when I drink.
Tanner is at the doorway. “Babe.”
I reach for a washcloth and knock one of them off the shelf and into the open toilet. “Lovely.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? Gravity?” I go for another washcloth and twist on the faucet so hard, it squeals for five seconds. I really need to get that looked at. “Or planning a big wedding vow ceremony I wasn’t even aware we were having?”