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My peons worked around the clock from all over the world, sifting data, combing it down to refined perfection and sending it back to me for sale to all the advertisers I can find. Truth be told, I had not experienced much change through the whole 'move to online' phase, as I was already used to technology. It was the restrictions that got to me.
They said that there would be no more drinking in bars, or pooled parking lots, or with anyone considered a human being. Added to that was the fact that we all had to put on masks whenever we were outside our four walls.
They also didn’t know whether the virus could be spread via food preparation or delivery, there being mixing and conflicting reports. And so, becoming the cook that I never have been, I decided to never leave the house.
To say my house is nice would be an understatement, but I don’t like to brag.
It’s more like a mansion.
It has five bedrooms.
Two kitchens.
A gym.
An indoor pool.
Enough pantries and food storage to last me two years in case the world went to hell in a handbasket— a possibility that is beginning to look more likely.
And that’s only what it has on the inside, leaving the outside out of things.
I was set. Until the days turned into weeks, and there was clearly no better place to be than home, alone, and yet it was lonely and induced madness.
The chicken soup's salty brine was fresh on my tongue when I pulled myself through an ice bath. Bert recommended it since we started working out together a year ago, and since I started it, the pained soreness has been prodigal for the longest time.
It was so cold I couldn’t stand it for long. I got out hastily, readied myself and pulled an apron over my ass to make Christmas Eve dinner.
Cooking for one plate had never been easier.
Before long, the pasta was boiling.
The meatballs were sizzling.
The potatoes were baking.
The aromas were filling my house.
A commercial came up on the screen, and something in passing— a giddy woman with her arm wrapped around another bigger, meatier one, or a lamppost with a freshly woven wreath on it signed Merry Christmas— got me thinking of my quiet muse once more.
Of course I called her.
I’d never been known for my patience or impulse control. Instead, I was the type to take what I want when I wanted it.
And there was nothing I wanted more for Christmas than the beautiful, curvaceous Nellie.
I just didn’t expect to see her so soon, parcel in hand, in person at my doorstep, looking more radiant than the last time we laid eyes on each other.
Honestly, this could go a bit more professionally if I had a shirt on underneath the beige Kiss the Cook’s Spoon wrapped around my naked middle.
Chapter Three
Nellie
"I thought you would have had it delivered," Denue says, chuckling.
"Um, so sorry to have intruded on your evening plans. I just thought it would be better if I delivered this in person. Privacy and all that."
It would have been smarter to have it delivered. The cab, the walk, another cab and more walking on this side of the neighborhood had not been my best ideas. I got looks from a lot of people because I was clearly an outsider in this ritzy part of town.
"Makes sense,” he says, shrugging. "Well, since you're here, would you mind joining me for dinner?"
"You're sure?"
"I insist."
Once that door shuts behind me, I reminisce about the moment I wished for when I was ringing his doorbell. There were days when I did not need to see Denue in a suit. All I can think about are those washboard abs of his. And his strong arms, picking me up and wrapping my legs around those washboard abs.
"Okay. So, please make yourself comfortable in the kitchen as I go upstairs to change," he instructs me.
"Thank you,” I tell him, slightly regretful that he’ll be covering up that glorious body of his.
We part ways at the bottom of a pretty cool staircase. Nothing too fancy, which surprises me some, since I know he has expensive, impeccable taste. But everything is very tastefully done.
A few sconces here and there to mark the quality craftmanship.
A dashing red carpet over broad wooden floors.
There are no pictures.
No trophies.
Just trinkets, small decors that would, I think, be telling of his travels around the globe, years before he decided to settle here. In Michigan. To run an ad agency on steroids.
"God, that smells good," I whisper as I walk into the empty kitchen.
Quaint.
If quaint was a fireplace, a sock on the mantle, a wooden picnic table with benches for chairs, oil paintings of a waiting woman, some in charcoal, others with pallet knife, a handsome bureau at the end of a hole in the wall, leading, I hope, not to a dingy basement with hacking tools, but I hope, instead, to a pantry filled with chocolate goodies and a bubbly Jacuzzi; then yes, this would all be very quaint.
