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Well, I’ll be damned. I love that she knows what she wants.
She carefully selects her pans, a juicer, and some meal prep containers she says I’ll be able to take with me to practice. I don’t have the heart to tell her that the team usually buys us lunch when we go out. She’s weaving between the aisles, breaking down why specific cookware is better than others, and how they need to be cleaned and maintained. Her eyes sparkle when she speaks, and a lot of what she’s saying is going way over my head, but I am thoroughly entertained by her enthusiasm.
When she stops at an aisle for baking, she gives a double-take to one of the stand mixers.
“Which one is best?”
She walks up to one of the demo models. “This one, but we don’t need it. I’m guessing your diet will be more protein-based.” She keeps checking out a matte silver one on the end. Her smile grows.
“Micky and I had a patisserie class together in college. Neither of us could make a macaron to save our lives, so we stayed up all night. We must have had hundreds of macarons that were either deflated, hollow, or porous. Or burned! Anyway, finally, around four in the morning, we got the hang of it. God, we ate so many shit macarons that night. It was years before I had any desire to eat one again.” She laughs.
“Do you like baking?”
“Sometimes, but I only bake for fun.”
“Are you sure you don’t want one?”
“No, no, no. I mean, yes, I’m sure. I was just being nostalgic. Ready to go?”
“Yup, let’s check out.”
I feign disinterest but sneak a photo of the barcode. After the way I gave her shit about the sex toys, she deserves a little something special.
Evidence Item #162
Submitting Agent: Tim Rollins
Case Number: NF-2000-PR-0856478
Item #: 162
Description of Enclosed Evidence: Journal, 2003
Victim’s Name: Bridget Lynn Hayes
Suspect’s Full Name: Julianne Katheryn Fournier
July 20, 2003
It’s bad enough I have to spend all day schooling her, but she’s constantly outgrowing her clothes. And the meals. My God, I feed her twice a day, and somehow it’s still not enough for her. Figures I end up with the most spoiled child of all time. How much does she really expect from me? Home economics will be starting immediately. Lucky for her, I’m a fabulous cook so she’ll be far ahead of her peers at the public school. Finally, she will be pulling her weight around here. At least she’s a quick study.
EIGHTEEN
Ispent the last three hours at the grocery store and am worn out. So much time was wasted trying to convert measurements from metric to the imperial system. Why do they think Canada abandoned it in the ’70s? The rest of the world gets it. Waiting on you, America! The weights and measurements here are arbitrary and make zero sense. Good thing I picked up a measuring scale the other day, because I’m not dealing with that dry measuring cup bullshit.
The fridge was practically bare, besides half a case of beer and a few bottles of hot sauce. He likes it spicy, which is no surprise, considering the mouth on him. But even when he’s not being flirty, the timbre of his voice makes me weak in the knees. The crush I had on him as a child has been gone for a long time, but it’s obviously never strayed too far. Only this time, my filthy fantasies have obliterated any trace of the old puppy love.This bitch wants a bone!Especially because I know what the bone looks like. I just haven’t had it in my mouth yet. Okay, that’s enough, this metaphor is getting gross. The odds of that encounter still astound me. And while he’s sexy, charismatic, and charming, there’s more to him than that. It goes deeper than he likes to let on.
He’s away at dryland training—why isn’t that a spectator sport? I got a preview of his workout in his home gym—two very exuberant thumbs-up.I scheduled a meeting with his nutritionist to review his diet and devise a menu that will work with his training and game day schedules.
Since I also need to eat, I bought a couple of items for myself, but it will be easiest if we share the same meal plan. I’m ensuring I have enough to get us through the next week or two.
I pull into the parking garage, find the elevator code, and type it in. It’s my first time entering his condo by myself. Thankfully, I have my trusty cart helping me bring up all the groceries. I walk into the entry, neatly kick off my shoes, and carry the paper bags—that I can barely see over—to the kitchen. I set them down with a humph and then it catches my eye.
The stand mixer. Holy shit, he bought me a stand mixer!
There’s a note attached that reads,All yours. Go wild.I try not and look too far into that. Then I see that there’s also a pack of AA batteries leaning up against the side with another note that says,For your toolbox.Cheeky bastard. I admire the machine again and turn it on and off, exploring the different attachments. I bounce on my tiptoes and giggle. This was way too nice of a gift, but I’m too selfish to demand he take it back. I need to come up with something to make him as a thank you.
Me: OMG! ??
