“Just a thought,” I answer at first. “What if we use the rest of the dough you just made to make some pizza bombs for lunch?”
Cole stops the rolling pin and looks at me. “Pizza what?”
“Pizza bombs!” I nearly shout in excitement. “You basically put a little sauce, cheese, and your choice of toppings in the center of some biscuit dough and bake. We’ll each make our own, of course, but the rule will be we have to try at least one of the other’s pizza bombs.”
Cole snorts. “With your taste in toppings, that idea might just make me throw up.”
Insulted, I grab a pinch of flour from the center of the cutting board and toss it at Cole’s face. Cole puts up his hand in an attempt to block the attack, but my dusting still hits my target square in the cheek. He glares at me for a second, then scoops out what little flour that is left in the bag into his hand. I’m up on my feet in an instant.
“Cole don’t,” I beg.
He smirks at my plea and steps toward me. “You asked for it.” He charges as I attempt to run, only to find myself cornered between the refrigerator and farmhouse sink. I shut my eyes as the powdery substance brushes against my skin and slips between my lips. The taste of dry flour settles on my tongue, making me feel like I just swallowed a pile of dust. Once I open my eyes, I find my hair, face, and top are coated in white. Cole holds his belly while he laughs. I gently brush the flour away from my eyes and turn my focus on the farmhouse sink and the discarded measuring cup inside. I turn on the faucet, pretending to wash as I take the cup and fill it full of water. Cole’s laughter ceased just when I turn around. He looks from me to the cup.
“And what are you going to do with that?” he asks.
Without replying, I walk up to him and toss the water into his face. Cole stumbles back as the water splashes down his neck, shirt, and pants—dousing them through—all the way to the kitchen floor. Now, I’m the one laughing while Cole uses his flour-dusted hands to wipe off his face, leaving white streaks on his skin. Unfortunately, my joy doesn’t last as long as his did. The moment the water is out of Cole’s storm-brewing eyes, he reaches out and grabs me by the waist. I scream in a mixture of fear and delight as he lifts me up and tucks me under his muscular arm like a sack of grain. He marches me to the farmhouse sink.
“Truce.” I laugh, seeing what was coming next. “Truce.” Cole ignores my plea, places me down, and turns on the faucet. Then shoves my head under the stream of water. The cold freezes the back of my head, neck, and cheeks while flour trickles into the farmhouse sink. “I said, truce!” I cried.
Cole quickly releases his pressure on my back, allowing me to turn off the water. I sputter some water from my lips and pull my hair forward to wring it out into the farmhouse sink.
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