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“Why do you like me?” I blurted.
He inclined his head, face impassive. “Excuse me?”
I sighed, knowing it wouldn’t be as easy as just asking the question and getting a straight answer. I’d have to go through the whole song and dance, humiliating myself. But I’d opened up this can of worms, and the tightness in his jaw told me he wasn’t going to let this go.
“You like me,” I said.
“Like is one word to describe how I feel about you,” he murmured.
The murmur was a boom inside my head. My stomach fluttered, my thighs clenched, and I tried really hard not to let out an embarrassing girly sigh. I managed. Barely.
Then I straightened my spine and remembered what I was doing. “Well, it makes no sense. That you like me. You are this tall, muscled, incredibly handsome, enchanting man. You’re a real man. Like cut wood with an ax kind of man. Women absolutely drool over you, and you don’t even notice. You have some kind of… power about you, like if we were both on a plane and it was going down, I wouldn’t be scared. Not at all, because I know you would somehow handle the situation. Now, I don’t know if you’re a pilot or whatever, but I know you’d take care of it. Take care of me.”
His body visibly relaxed at my words, though his dark brows bunched together, listening to me very intently. With an intensity that was nearly impossible to breathe through.
“And I’m a baker,” I added. “A good one, I’ll give you that.”
“A great one,” he corrected, his voice thick and velvety.
I swallowed the embarrassment creeping up my throat. “Yes, well... Some call me a great baker, and I won’t argue about that, but apart from my baking skills, there’s nothing interesting about me.”
I frowned, looking for tidbits about my life that were even worth talking about. Things that would measure up to a man I trusted to save me from a plane crash.
“I have a drawer full of planners, notebooks and journals,” I continued rambling. “Not like a small, narrow, bathroom drawer. No, a big one. A huge dresser drawer full of beautiful, witty, trendy notebooks. To write plans in. Goals. Lists. Some of them have a list or two inside, but most of them are empty. Because I have high hopes for myself and imagine myself as someone who fills up journals and ticks things off lists. Every time I buy one, I promise myself that is the time I will become one of those people.”
I sucked in a breath, staring straight at him without actually looking into his eyes. “I don’t know how to use Excel. I know that is terrible. Utterly terrible for a small business owner who does everything herself. I have to file taxes, keep up with expenses, organize schedules, order supplies, keep inventory. But I just have a drawer. Multiple drawers actually. Full of crumpled up receipts, stained with flour and syrups. I hire someone to deal with payroll because I will never, ever fuck with someone’s paycheck. My financial stuff can be a hot mess because it’s my life, but I have people who depend on that paycheck to pay their rent. So that, I’m organized with. The only reason the IRS hasn’t imprisoned me is because one of my stepdads—the only one I liked, the one who acted like a dad—he’s an accountant. He’s my accountant, and he’s more than happy to be paid in cookies. I need a beta blocker just to go to Trader Joe’s.”
He was watching me with rapt attention, a look on his face I might’ve enjoyed, might’ve even marveled at, had I not been on a roll.
Unfortunately, I was on a roll, so I did neither. So, I did not realize what in the fuck was going to come out of my mouth next. If I’d had any idea what was going to come out of my mouth, I would’ve sewn it shut.
I remained unaware.
“When I get anxious or uninspired, I masturbate,” I announced. The words came out of my mouth, but I didn’t realize I’d said them. Therefore, I kept talking. “I do it because I like sex, pleasure too. But I get ideas for new cakes, pastries while I’m doing it. I solve problems. I relax at the same time I find more energy. I feel more alive.”
When the last syllable left my lips, once the damage was done, I snapped my mouth shut, blood rushing to my face as I realized what I’d just revealed.
What I’d just said out loud.
I said that masturbating gave me ideas for pastries.
Please, Thor, smite me with a crack of fucking lightning.
My feet didn’t work. If they did, there would’ve been a me-shaped hole in my lovely wall that had been repaired and painted just six months ago.
