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He groans and grabs his keys. “You’re killing me, Vi.”
Once we make it out to his truck, he doesn’t hesitate this time, he grips my hips, causing a small gasp to escape my lips at the contact and hoists me up. For just a second we’re both frozen face to face, eye to eye, mere inches apart. The sensations from his hands being on me are running from my waist to the top of my head and back down to my toes. If I leaned in just the tiniest bit, I could kiss him. I bet that would give me those sparks that he was talking about. Abruptly, he drops me into the seat and makes sure my legs are tucked in before closing the door and ending any moment that my mind may have conjured.
It’s not long before we’re wandering the packed aisles of our local Costco. “So, what do you think we needbesidesa shipping container’s worth of alcohol?” I take the lead and steer the cart toward the paper goods section.
“Unless you want half your plates and glasses broken, I’d suggest stocking up on this stuff.”
“Well, it’s not like they were expensive but lord knows I don’t want anyone stepping on glass.” He grabs paper plates and napkins and tosses them in the cart while I heft a package of the obligatory red Solo cups over my shoulder before dumping it into the cart to join the others.
“What do you plan on doing for food? It’s probably a little too soon to get anything perishable,” I say as we make our way through the store.
“I was going to order catering from the Mediterranean place down the street. Do you think that’s okay?”
“That’s fine, I wouldn’t worry too much about ordering like, full meals or anything. It’s going to be mostly Bianca’s art friends and if I’ve learned anything from attending a plethora of art shows with her, it’s that the art crowd loves good appetizers. Maybe we should just grab chips and things like that for today?”
“Good idea.”
We’re making our way through the store, chatting about nothing and everything when I spot something sitting on one of the produce displays. “Oh my god, look! They have rambutans!” I excitedly grab a package containing the tiny fruits that resemble sea urchins and show them to Dante.
“Rambu-whats?” He’s suspiciously eyeing my find like he doesn’t quite trust them. “What the hell are they?”
“They’re rambutans. They’re little fruits that are kind of like lychees.” The explanation doesn’t seem to make him any less leery.
“They look like hairy red and green golf balls sorely in need of a trim,” he says making me laugh.
“I’ve read about them and seen them in pictures but I’ve actually never come across any. I can’t believe that they have them here. I’ve always wanted to bake something with them.”
“Sold.” He grabs the package out of my hand and gently places it on top of the pile of items in our cart.
“Oh no, I didn’t mean for you to get them. It’s not worth me baking something with them.” I go to reach into the cart to grab the package and he pushes my hand away.
“What are you talking about? You want to make something with them, let’s get it.”
“You don’t understand,” I say with a groan.
“What are you talking about, Violet?”
“I’m a bad baker, okay?” I know I’ve raised my voice but I’m annoyed that he’s forced me to admit this flaw to him. “I love baking but I’m bad at it. Nothing ever comes out right.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Oh, but it is. Just ask your daughter. I mean, one time I actually mixed up the salt and sugar. I think Hollie had to drink a gallon of water before her body was back to being balanced out. The sad thing is that I really love baking. I find it calming, following the step-by-step instructions. It gives me something to focus on and it helps to melt away any stress I have going on in my life. It’s tragic really,” I add admittedly rather dramatically.
Dante is giving me a frown of disapproval and the last thing I want to do is hear him tell me I shouldn’t bake anymore. I move away from him but he gently grabs my arm, sending another tingle through my body. He’s got to stop doing that.
“Look, Violet, mixing up salt and sugar isn’t that big of a deal, I’m sure everyone has done it—”
“It wasn’t just that, I—”
“But,” he continues like I didn’t just rudely interrupt him, “don’t let that stop you from doing something you love. Just because you’ve made a few mistakes doesn’t make you bad at it. If you really love it, just keep going. Besides, I bet they aren’t half as bad as you’re making them out to be.”
“You’d be wrong,” I grumble under my breath.
He stares at me for another beat before a smile forms on his face. “I’ll tell you what. I suck at cooking, like, truly, I’m abhorrent. But there are a few things I can make. Why don’t you bake me something with these tiny dust balls and I’ll make you dinner. Then we can both practice something that we may not be the best at?”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Hey, it’s not just for you. I’ve got to eat too. Plus, I can’t tell you the last time I got to eat something home baked. I’ll do dinner and you can make desert once we get back to the house. Deal?”
