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“That’s because you tried to go all Pollock on your scoring instead of doing the simple score I showed you. Twice.” Kingsley surveys his finished product with a smug, satisfied look. He did two different patterns on his—one half was the so-called simple pattern he’d shown me, which was just three even slanted but parallel cuts down one side. The other was a whole bouquet of flowers, complete with leaves. He was crazy if he thought I was just going to take the easy way out.
What resulted was what looked like a marginally edible loaf that had been attacked by a two-year-old who had managed to get his hand on a pair of scissors for the first time.
“I was going for ‘Pham,’ not Pollock. I should teach you the Vietnamese alphabet,” I say.
“I’d happily learn. And sit and listen and repeat obediently as you instructed me to.”
He gets a glare. “I sense you’re trying to draw some sort of parallel, but I’m not seeing it.”
“Do you see that?” He points at my sourdough loaf, where the bread bulged up like it’s trying to escape through an uneven cut.
I turn to him, hands on my hips, staring him down… from my vantage point of over a whole foot below him. “Yeah. What about it?”
He reaches over and breaks off the escaping piece and pops it into his mouth. “Nothing. It’s delicious.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought, Mr. Baxter.”
I move to the far side of the kitchen and open the cupboard to search for a picnic basket to transport the bread in, but it’s not where I thought I saw it. “Do know where that wicker basket is?”
He breaks off another darker-than-it-should-be edge of my loaf, getting a shout from me, and wanders over. “I think Theodore moved it here,” he says, reaching up overhead, pressing up against me as he pulls the basket off the top shelf. “Um. Here you go.” His voice is low, and he drops the basket into my hands as he closes the cupboard door.
“Thank you.”Look away, Luna.
“No problem. We should get going,” he says and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me with the basket and a blush.
A quick glance at the clock tells me we’re about to be late for work, and considering we’re both covered in flour, it looks like getting there on time is going to be an almost physical impossibility. Last night, I asked him to help me bake some bread to take into work for someone’s birthday potluck. After some begging and mild but not empty threats, he agreed, taking out his decades-old sourdough starter that sat on its own shelf in his fridge, and made me meticulously measure out the amount of water and flour to feed it so that it would be ready to use in the morning. And then I’d watched, horrified, as he set my alarm forfour a.m. so that the bread would be ready to take into work at seven thirty.
I almost gave up right there and then, but the way his silence challenged me had me stumbling to the kitchen at three forty-five with a smirk on my face, only to see he was already up, freshly showered, aproned, and setting up all the tools we’d need.
As much as I hated him for being such a know-it-all overachiever, I couldn’t fault the way he patiently walked me through each step. Encouraging when something wasn’t turning out quite right, gently taunting when he knew what I needed was a little push. And the result was a less than perfect bread loaf, but one I could be proud of sharing to dunk in Marcus’s bean soup for the potluck.
He is almost the perfect man.
Except for the way that he almost never meets my eyes.
And sometimes, I feel like he doesn’t know the difference between talking to me and a cardboard box.
He’s a little more relaxed at home than at the office, but even then, he makes a point never to stand too close. Never touching me. If he hands me something, he’ll put it down on the counter, ready for me to pick it up.
Sometimes I try to ask him personal questions, just about his family, his childhood, his hobbies. He sidesteps each one with practiced ease.
And if I ever try to flirt, just to see how he’ll react, I’m met with a steely silence that chills any desire to take it further in its tracks.
He’s making it very clear—grindy, slightly drunk, needy, incredibly emotionally messy Luna has no place here.
And in some ways, it’s a relief.
It’s like he has totally forgotten her, so even in those moments, when I just want to get a rise out of him, it feels nice to know that he isn’t holding the past against me.
Eighteen
Kingsley
She is Ernest’s daughter.
She is fifteen years younger than you.
She is trusting you to protect her and her future.
