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So, I stop myself from asking, instead observing that the kitchen island seems to be filled with just about every pastry imaginable.
“Are you throwing a party or did a bakery genie show up to make all your pastry dreams come true over night?” I inquire, and it gets a weak smile out of her.
“Sorry,” she says. “I was stress-cooking and couldn’t stop myself. I kept your breakfast warm in the microwave.”
“Don’t ever apologize for cooking,” I say because everything smells divine. I snag a scone on my way to the microwave, taking a bite of the delicious flavor. Yeah, just as I thought. Fucking amazing.
I still take my food out of the microwave and make myself at home on the island as she goes about taking something else out of the oven. I watch her, the natural way she moves around the kitchen, so fluid and graceful and goddamn feminine that it makes me feel a little like a caveman. Like I just want to grab her, pull her in my lap, and make love to her amidst all the fucking pastries.
And if I'm being honest, this isn't the first time I've had the fantasy.
The idea has been in my head since last night. Shit, since the fucking moment I saw her in that damn towel, and then found out she could cook. Desire has been a low thrum in my blood since then. Every perversion and dirty thought directed toward her.
And now watching her like this is fucking torture. It’s worse than being in any strip club anyway. She’s more desirable than any woman I’ve ever fucking dated, and that makes it horrible because she’s the one I can’t have.
The more I watch her, the more I notice the stress lines on her face and her unusual quietness. It’s bothering me more and more as time goes on.
Until I can’t take it anymore.
“If you don’t tell me what happened, at least tell me if there’s anything I can do to fix it.”
The question is so sappy despite the forceful tone I nearly wince. It's like I'm begging to know her problems. But at this point, I might be. Fuck it, if she asked me for a million dollars right there and then, I’m not a hundred percent sure I wouldn’t have whipped out a checkbook, that's how much I want that pained look off her face.
But instead, she shakes her head, “No.”
“Red—”
“I don’t want to tell you. And don’t call me that.”
“But I want you to,” I say. “Tell me.”
She shakes her head and attempts a casual shrug. “It's nothing. Just a silly argument with my mother.”
“Ah.” I know all about arguments with parents. “What’s it about?”
She shrugs again, but this time she does answer. “My mom wants me to move back home and I don’t want to.”
“Why not?” I ask. I know all about dysfunctional families, but she doesn't seem like someone who comes from one. Plus, I thought with everything going on, she would be eager to get back home to her comfort zone, rather than stay with a...' creepy old man.'
“I don’t want to move back there,” she says. "You’ll have to know Milstone to understand why. There is literally nothing out there in terms of job opportunities and social life. It’s the middle of nowhere and their idea of fine dining is going to Rita’s HogHouse after church. I won’t have a future there. Plus…”
“Plus what?” I ask after she stops herself in her sentence.
“I don’t want to live with my parents again,” she says. “It just feels like I would be traveling backward in my trajectory.”
I can definitely understand that. I made the bulk of my money after I dropped out of school and went to New York, with nothing but five hundred dollars in my pocket. There were times I had to sleep on the street and take on shitty jobs just to get some money. But I bore it because I had to. Returning back home with my tail tucked between my legs wasn’t an option. I just could never admit defeat in that way, so it made me hustle harder, till I got my big break.
I can see the same fighting spirit in her now, and I respect it.
“Why does she want you to come home?” I ask.
“She found out that I lost my job and I’m no longer living at my old place,” she says and then glances at me out of the corner of her eyes in between rolling out some dough. “And also, she doesn’t want me staying here with you.”
“Ah,” I say. “She’s right.”
That’s apparently the wrong thing to say because she immediately turns to me with a look reflecting betrayal.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
