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When he reaches out to take one of the cupcakes, I smack his hand away. “Don’t you dare.”
His eyes meet mine. “You baked them for show?”
“No, I baked them so I could leave the day behind.”
“And we’re not going to eat them?”
“They’re not ready yet.”
“They look good to me.”
“They need to be frosted.”
“I don’t give a fuck about frosting.”
He reaches again to take one, and I push his hand away with extra force this time. “You will regret it if you take one. And believe me, you will give all the fucks about frosting once you taste it. Now, go and run. Or do whatever it is you do in those shorts.”
His lips form the beginning of a smile, but it doesn’t fully eventuate. “I’m coming back for one of those cupcakes.”
I watch him walk out of the kitchen.
My core somersaults after him.
I tell her she can somersault as much as she wants, and dream about sitting on his lap, but that she will never get her way again.
After Jameson leaves and I find my wits again, I frost the cupcakes and clean up the kitchen. Jeff tries to help but I don’t let him. I like working in the kitchen. Cleaning up after I bake is all part of the process for me, and always leaves me feeling satisfied that I’ve seen a project through to the end.
I make myself a cup of tea and take it and a cupcake to the table. One bite is enough to tell me this is my absolute favorite cupcake I’ve ever tasted. It’s all chocolate and bourbon and gooey pecan pie with the most delicious creamy brown sugar frosting.
I leave one out on a plate for Jameson, hopeful it will keep his asshole side locked away for the night.
I then go into the bedroom to take a shower and do some of my crossword before having an early night.
My gaze is drawn to a box sitting on my pillow as I walk toward the bed. When I reach it, I realize Jameson meant it when he told me he was going to buy me a new perfume.
A box of Molecule 01 sits waiting for me on my pillow.
I take it into my bathroom and open it. I’ve heard of this perfume but never smelled it. It’s apparently the anti-fragrance fragrance. Very minimalist.
I want to think “fuck him” because fuck him for thinking of himself here. So he’s attracted to my favorite perfume; that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t wear it.
However, the part of me that loves trying new perfumes can’t stop herself from opening the box and spritzing some on.
Goddamn him.
I fucking like it.
A lot.
I shove the bottle back in the box and put it at the back of the top drawer.
I’m never wearing it.
In fact, I’ll double down on only wearing the perfume he takes issue with.
Yes, I am now officially that woman.
The one who finds herself doing things she never imagined doing.
