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In rare reflective moments, I worried it may be something that never fully went away, that the woman with the fake smile and the phone-voice and the perpetual headache from too-tight hair, the one who could lie easily, the one who deceived people she loved may actually become a permanent part of my identity.
Apparently, safety from a man who could truly offer it, and having someone who at least knew part of the story, someone to ease the weight burdening my weak shoulders, was all I needed to shrug off the corporate persona as soon as I walked through the door.
His door.
I would never admit this aloud, but I was finding that when I unlocked the door and walked inside, that I had started to think of it as home.
In my head, I had started making changes. Little things. Things that would make it more homey, make everything that was currently mismatched work together more seamlessly.
I wanted to change the hideous valances that dated the whole area and maybe the drapes to something airy, something more sheer, letting in the sunshine. I would put large plants in the empty corners, herbs on the windowsill in the kitchen, more natural fabric carpets on the floor, more earth-toned accents on the furniture.
Oh, and the man was woefully in need of some decent baking pans. He didn’t even have a very basic (and in my opinion, very necessary) bread pan. Even if he didn’t bake fresh breads, didn’t everyone occasionally throw some banana bread in the oven? Even if it was the box kind?
I snorted at that thought, shaking my head. Clearly, I had not spent much time with those of the male persuasion in quite a while.
Did men even eat banana bread?
I couldn’t seem to conjure up an image of ever seeing a man doing so.
“What’s the brow-pinch look about?” Lincoln asked, making me jolt.
It was almost creepy how quietly he walked around at times. It was like living with a cat.
“Oh, ah, I was thinking about making banana bread.”
“That’s a serious topic, huh?” he asked as he made his way to the coffee machine, pouring a mug as he flicked on the electric kettle I had brought over a few days before, knowing I always liked to bring another cup of tea with me for the ride to work.
“Well, I was just thinking… I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man eat banana bread. Do you like banana bread?”
“Do you mean ‘you’ as a generalization, or are you asking me personally?”
“Both. Either.”
“I can’t speak for anyone else. But I like banana bread.”
“You have no bread pans.”
“I guess I will have to pick some up, huh? Anything else I need in my kitchen?” I swear I felt myself flinch a bit at the word my. Even though it made sense. It was his kitchen. Even if I had cooked in it more in the past week than he likely ever had. It wasn’t mine. Even if I had started to think of it as mine, started to load it up as if it were my own kitchen. The right cooking utensils, the right fruits and vegetables and grains, the right spices, the right types of flours and sweeteners.
“Who doesn’t have a cupcake tin?” I asked, shaking my head at him. “Oh, and you could use a better set of pans. Yours heat unevenly. It burns the eggs at one end while leaving the other side undercooked. I wouldn’t even think of making pancakes in it.”
It was gone quickly, but for some reason, he almost seemed stricken at the word pancakes.
“Not a fan of pancakes?” I asked, brows lowering, finding it odd that he wouldn’t be. He had yet to turn up his nose at anything I had put in front of him yet. And I had served him cornbread filled with vegetables the morning before.
“I fucking love pancakes,” he corrected, something unreadable in his eyes, something deep, but otherwise impossible to interpret.
“Oh, well, okay,” I said, shuffling my feet. “I like them too.”
“Buckwheat ones?” he asked, seeming to recover himself, shooting me a lip twitch.
“Well, those are good, yes. But I like normal pancakes too.”
“With actual evil white flour?” he pressed, smiling big now.
“Yes, even ones with white flour,” I agreed, smiling back at him.
His body moved slowly, almost catlike once again, but in a different way, in an almost predatory way as he turned toward me, half trapping me against the counter. Close. So, so close.
To be honest, as close as I had maybe been wanting him to be.
I had tried to chalk the feeling up to close quarters, to maybe a bit of appreciation and comfort. He was there, he knew my situation, he wanted to help me, he was attractive, and he was kind.
It was enough.
Especially for a woman as starved for male attention as I had been.
