Chapter 1: Strip Poker and the Pie Fight
The rain traced lazy paths down the windowpanes of Cordelia’s loft, a steady percussion against the glass. Inside, the world was warmth and shadow, the fire popping in the hearth, the air sweet with cinnamon and baked apples. Travis shifted on the floor cushions, the deck of cards feeling foreign and dangerous in his hands.
“Remind me again whose terrible idea this was?” he said, fanning the cards clumsily.
Cordelia smiled, a flash of white in the lantern-glow. She tucked a strand of fiery hair behind her ear. “Yours, technically. You said, and I quote, ‘Anything’s better than another movie.’” Her green eyes held a challenge. “Scared, Hayes?”
“Of you? Always.” It was mostly true. He’d been scared of his own feelings for her since, what, high school? College? It was a background hum to his entire adult life.
“Good. Ante up. One article of clothing.” She said it like she was suggesting another slice of pie.
The first few hands were a blur of nervous laughter and terrible bluffs. Travis lost a sock, then his flannel shirt, leaving him in a faded band t-shirt. Cordelia shed a knitted sock, then the other, her small feet looking pale against the dark rug. She won a hand and pointed a triumphant finger at his chest. “The shirt, Travis. Don’t be a coward.”
He pulled it over his head, the cool air of the loft raising goosebumps on his arms. He felt absurdly exposed, sitting across from her in just his jeans. She, however, looked completely at ease, studying her cards with a slight smirk.
The dynamic shifted with the next deal. Travis looked at his hand—a pair of eights—and saw a flicker of doubt cross Cordelia’s face. He leaned in, channeling a confidence he didn’t feel. “I’ll see your bet… and raise you.” He nudged a single card from his hand onto the pile between them. A meaningless gesture, but it looked good.
Cordelia’s eyes narrowed. She chewed her lip, a habit he’d memorized years ago. She met his raise. “Call.”
He laid down his mediocre pair. She groaned, throwing her cards down—ace high. “You bluffed.” She sounded more impressed than annoyed.
“Your turn,” he said, his voice lower than he intended.
She held his gaze for a long second, then stood up. The simple movement was hypnotic. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her soft, gray leggings and pushed them down in one smooth motion, stepping out of them. She was left in an oversized burgundy sweater that hit her mid-thigh. The firelight outlined the curve of her legs, the sprinkle of freckles across her knees.
Travis’s mouth went dry. This was no longer a silly game.
The next hand he lost decisively. He undid his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a hiss, and tossed it aside. He was down to his jeans. The atmosphere tightened, the space between them charged with a new, silent understanding. The banter faded, replaced by the crackle of the fire and the heavy drum of the rain.
Cordelia lost the next hand. She didn’t speak. She just gripped the hem of that enormous sweater and pulled it up and over her head in a swirl of red hair. It landed softly on the leggings. She sat back down, crossing her arms over a simple black lace bra. Her skin was luminous in the low light, a landscape of soft curves and sharp collarbones he’d only ever imagined.
Travis stopped breathing. This was Cory. His best friend. And he was staring.
“Deal,” she said, her voice a little rough.
The game became a silent, swift war of attrition. Travis lost his jeans, sitting stiffly in his boxer-briefs, praying his body wouldn’t betray the riot happening inside him. Cordelia lost her bra, and for a heart-stopping moment she was just there, beautiful and unashamed, before she casually draped a discarded throw pillow across her lap.
Then it was the final hand. Two cards each. His heart was a jackhammer against his ribs. He looked at his cards—a king and a three of different suits. Garbage. He looked at her face, searching for a tell, but her expression was unreadable, a mixture of concentration and something else. Anticipation.
“I’m all in,” she whispered.
“So am I,” he heard himself say.
They revealed their cards simultaneously. Her queen and seven. His king and three. King high beat queen high.
He had won. She had lost. Everything.
For a long beat, neither moved. The only sound was the rain. Then, a slow smile spread across Cordelia’s face. It wasn’t a smile of defeat. It was wild, conspiratorial. “Okay,” she said. “You won. You get to decide the forfeit. But the pie fight idea is still on the table.”
He couldn’t form a coherent thought. Every rule, every boundary of their twenty-year friendship, was piled on the floor with their clothes. “Forfeit?” he echoed stupidly.
“Winner’s privilege.” She gestured to the remains of the apple pie on the nearby counter, the whipped cream can beside it. “Or… something else.”
He stood up, his legs unsteady. He walked to the counter, not breaking eye contact with her in the reflection of the dark window. He picked up the pie tin. It was still half full, the crust golden, the filling glistening. He turned and walked back, stopping just before her.
This was the point of no return. He could lob a piece, start a food fight, retreat into safe, messy chaos.
He didn’t.
He dipped two fingers into the cool, spiced filling. He saw her breath hitch. Very slowly, watching her eyes the whole time, he brought his fingers to her collarbone and drew a sticky, golden line from one shoulder to the other.
She gasped, a sharp intake of air. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second.
Then her hand snapped up, plunged into the tin, and came out dripping. She smeared a handful directly over his heart. The chill was a shock, the sweetness clashing with the heat of his skin. He grabbed her wrist, pie filling oozing between their fingers.
No one moved. The world shrunk to the feel of her slick skin under his grip, the frantic pulse in her wrist, the shared scent of sugar and cinnamon hanging between them. The playful dare in her eyes had melted into something dark and hungry, a reflection of the ache that had lived in him for years.
His other hand, sticky and trembling, came up to cradle the side of her face. He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb, leaving a glossy smear. “Cory,” he breathed, the word a question, a plea, a statement of fact.
Her answer was to close the last inch between them. Her mouth found his, and it wasn’t gentle. It was a collision—sweet from the pie, desperate from the waiting, hot from the fire burning down to embers beside them. She kissed him with a ferocity that shattered every last pretense, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there was no space, no logic, no past or future, just the shocking, sticky, perfect rightness of her skin against his.
She kissed him with a ferocity that shattered every last pretense, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there was no space, no logic, no past or future, just the shocking, sticky, perfect rightness of her skin against his.
The pie tin clattered to the floor, forgotten.
Her mouth was sweet and desperate. Travis groaned into the kiss, his hands sliding down her back, smearing the filling, learning the map of her spine. Every coherent thought dissolved into sensation—the slick heat of her skin, the cinnamon on her lips, the sharp catch of her breath as he pulled her tighter against him.
“Travis,” she gasped, breaking away just enough to say his name before diving back in, her teeth grazing his lower lip.
He stumbled backward, pulling her with him, until his knees hit the sofa. They fell onto the cushions in a tangle of limbs and sticky sweetness. The world was reduced to the taste of her, the sound of the rain, the rough texture of the blanket beneath them. He kissed a path from her mouth to her jaw, to the delicate line of her throat, licking at a dollop of whipped cream that had landed there from some unknown moment. She arched against him, a soft, broken sound escaping her.
Then her hands pushed at his shoulders. “Wait,” she breathed, her eyes blazing.
He froze, a cold fear slicing through the heat. Had he misread—
But she was scrambling off the sofa, padding naked to the kitchen island. She came back with the can of whipped cream in one hand and a half-empty bottle of red wine in the other. A wild, challenging grin lit her face. “You won. Winner gets… everything.”
She shook the can, the metallic rattle loud in the quiet room, and aimed. A cold, sugary spiral landed on his chest. He flinched, then laughed, the sound rough and unfamiliar. He grabbed for the wine bottle, but she was too fast, dodging and tipping it just enough to pour a dark, crimson splash across his stomach. It was cold, shocking, a stark contrast to the warmth of her body just moments before.
“Oh, you’re gonna regret that,” he growled, surging up.
He wrestled the can from her hand, and the fight descended into beautiful, ridiculous chaos. Whipped cream hissed and clouded the air, landing in her hair, on her eyelashes. He retaliated by pouring a glug of wine directly over her shoulder, watching it cascade in a purple river down her breast. She shrieked, laughing, and grabbed a handful of the spilled pie filling from the floor, painting a wide, glistening stripe across his back as he tried to evade her.
They became a masterpiece of mess. The pristine loft was a warzone of sugary, alcoholic abandon. Chocolate syrup was discovered from the back of a cupboard and drizzled in looping patterns. A dusting of flour from a canister on the counter snowed down over them, mixing with the wine to form pale pink paste in the hollow of his throat. They slipped and slid on the tile, falling against the counter, smearing handprints of every substance on every surface.
It was absurd. It was glorious.
He finally caught her, both of them panting, their bodies slick and stained and utterly foreign. He pinned her gently against the cold refrigerator door, their chests heaving. She was a vision of decadent ruin—her red hair streaked with cream and wine, her skin a canvas of gold, white, purple, and brown. He was no better, covered in a sticky, drying film that glued his skin to hers.
“Look at us,” she whispered, her voice full of wonder.
He did. He looked. And he saw not just the mess, but the freedom in it. The years of careful friendship, the unspoken rules, were literally dripping onto her hardwood floors. There was no going back to before. This was the only after.
He lowered his head, kissing her again, slow and deep now, the frantic energy settling into a thick, pulsing current. The taste was complex—sweet, tart, alcoholic, hers. His hands slid over her hips, through the sludge, finding the clean, hot skin beneath.
“Cordelia,” he murmured against her mouth, the name a sacred, stunned thing.
Her answer was to hook a leg around his, her body aligning with his completely. The momentum carried them, stumbling, laughing breathlessly, away from the kitchen wreckage. They left a trail of sticky footprints and a shared, unshakeable hunger across the floor, moving toward the shadows of her bedroom, the rain on the windows the only witness to their glorious, messy undoing.