AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘Up there.’ She nodded at the utensils that her mum had hanging from bars over the counter for easy access. He reached up to grab the sieve, and the hem of his T-shirt lifted over the waistband of his jeans. The faded red and black of his tattoo hovered over the well of his spine, inching past the black cotton of his boxers. The T-shirt dropped back into place, and she found herself staring at the faded denim cupping his tight, perfectly defined buns.
Her lips dried to parchment as she imagined running her fingertip over the delicate lines of the drawing—and then dipping it beneath the waistband of his pants.
‘What do I do with it?’ he asked, wielding the sieve.
‘Sift some flour over this mixture.’
He lifted the flour tin and stepped closer. His forearm brushed hers, weighing down the hot brick in her stomach. ‘How much?’
She could smell him, the hints of his lemony shower gel above the scent of sugar and vanilla. ‘About five hundred grams. I’ll tell you when to stop.’
She could hear the steady murmur of his breathing, feel the tension in his arm, above the phlop-phlop-phlop of the spoon, and her own racketing heartbeat. He held the sieve over her bowl and sprinkled the flour with the care and precision of a bomb-disposal expert handling nitroglycerine.
‘What’s your tattoo supposed to be?’
Flour puffed over the edge of the sieve as the tin jerked and tapped the edge of the bowl.
She carried on mixing, the phlop-phlop-phlop the only sound as the silence stretched. ‘Keep sifting,’ she prompted, because he seemed to be frozen in place. ‘We’re not at five hundred grams yet.’
He tipped the tin too steeply and a wedge of flour flopped into the sieve, sending a mushroom cloud of dust into the air.
‘That’s probably enough now.’
He drew the sieve away. ‘Sorry.’
‘Is it a bird?’ she continued to probe, all innocence. ‘The tattoo, I mean.’
‘It’s supposed to be a phoenix. The artist was pretty low-rent.’ He placed the tin of flour onto the counter, resealed the lid, still handling nitro. She’d definitely struck a nerve—which was all the more reason to keep on swinging.
She folded the flour into the mixture. ‘Get a spoon out and we can put this in the casings now.’
‘How much?’
‘About that much.’ She ladled a dollop into the bottom of one casing. ‘Don’t go mad or the sponge will spill over when it rises in the oven.’
‘OK.’
They began filling the casings together, side by side. ‘When did you get the tattoo?’
His spoon paused in mid-air, before he resumed filling his casing. ‘Couple of years back.’
‘Why?’
He scraped some more batter out of the bowl, used his finger to plop it into the casings. ‘Why are you so interested in it?’
Yup. She had definitely hit a nerve. She liked it. Getting a reaction out of him was better than not getting a reaction. Especially when those chocolate-brown eyes narrowed on her face. His expression intent. He was seeing her now. No doubt about that. She ignored the pleasant sensations fluttering under her breastbone. Being the focus of Trey Carson’s attention was addictive. But she mustn’t get distracted.
‘It just seems totally out of character for you.’
‘Why, because I’m Mr Perfecto?’ He sounded prickly, and much more irritated about the nickname than when he’d first told her he knew about it. ‘You don’t know anything about me. Or my life.’
The pleasant fluttering became discordant and jarring. It was a familiar sensation. One she’d felt often when Carly accused her of being a drama queen, or her mum gave her that weary, harassed look that seemed to say: Why can’t you be the sweet child you once were? But, this time, she refused to take it personally, to let the implied criticism deflect her from her goal.
He was feeling threatened. He was hitting back. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Especially as it was exactly the reaction she’d wanted. Less hostility would be nice, but it was still better than polite and distant.
‘I know I don’t,’ she said, watching him carefully for any reaction. ‘But maybe I’d like to?’ She placed her spoon into the bowl, wiped her sticky fingers on the tea towel she’d tucked into her sweatpants. ‘I enjoyed myself on Sunday at the Serps. I had a good time with you and Aldo. It made
me realise I’ve been pretty shitty to you since you came to work for my mum. And I’d like to turn that around.’ She didn’t plan to ask him to be her friend, because apart from being totally lame, it would also be pretty transparent. The urge to flirt with him was too enormous. And she’d never been very good at flirting. So she needed to build up to it slowly, organically, if she didn’t want to die of mortification in the process. ‘I’m curious about the tattoo because I’m curious about you,’ she said, hoping he’d give her points for honesty.
