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“You don’t have to do that. She won’t expect you to learn to cook.”
“We could just hang out.”
Sean adds, “We can sift the flour or tie your hair back and make sure it’s out of the way.”
I’m not sure if it’s good or bad that they’re pretending nothing happened.
Mark says, “And we can forget that awkward post-sex moment. We’re all still willing to make sure you’re sufficiently over your ex.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “We’re good?”
“Nothing serious, that’s how you want it?” Carl asks.
I nod.
“Then we’re good.” Carl’s response almost seems canned.
Surely it can’t be this easy. “Well, I’m going to be making gingerbread.” I wave the butter over my shoulder as I walk out. “You’re welcome to help, but I have priorities too.” Will they catch on that I heard them?
It doesn’t much matter because, in seconds, Mark scoops me up, carries me into our parents’ penthouse, and sets me on the kitchen counter, “Looks like you’ve got everything ready.”
I like being in his arms way too much.
“I have things to do. I don’t just sit around waiting for orgasms all day.”
Carl laughs but there might be a note of seriousness. “You could. That option is on the table…or the counter.” He drags a hand up my thigh, then grabs a dish towel with both hands, rolls it up, and takes a chip clip out of the drawer.
“What are you doing?”
He places the rolled dish rag in front of my face, holding it at my eyes, and uses the clip to fasten it behind my head. “We need to have a little fun with our chef. Let’s play Name That Spice.”
His statement is followed by a distinct scent being wafted under my nose.
“Cloves.”
“Very good.”
Sean seems to be bumping him out of the way, jostling my knee in the process, “And this?”
“Nutmeg.”
“You’re making it too easy. She had those on the counter.” Mark’s voice seems to come from the pantry. Seconds later a new scent is offered.
“Rosemary.”
“She does know her spices.” Mark sounds impressed.
“She also knows that’s an herb, not a spice.” I join them in talking about me like I’m not there. That gets a hearty laugh from all of them.
Somebody pushes the hem of my skirt up and then traces a finger over my thigh, but it’s not just a finger. “Are you rubbing something on me?”
“Can you tell from the texture?” It’s still Mark.
“Oil?”
“I thought maybe we could lube you up.”
We all know the last thing I need is lube. But they might not know about laundry. “Don’t get any on my dress.”
