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It all started when Graham swiped his hand through some flour that had spilled onto the counter and proceeded to wipe it down my face.
Okay, it was actually I who did it to him. But it was in retaliation for him trying to sabotage my cake. Graham gave me the salt when I asked him to pass down the sugar, and I luckily caught it at the last second. After that, the game was on. I tried to subtly pour some extra baking soda in his bowl, which he stopped, and he upped the temperature on one of the double ovens, which I also caught. Neither of us are really on our game tonight, as far as subterfuge goes.
We finally called a truce, got our cakes in ovens with the correct temperatures, and as we were cleaning up, and because he got me last before we called a truce (I like to keep the score even), I saw the spilled flour on the counter and wiped it on his face.
I figured this is Graham’s kitchen—his new kitchen. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to retaliate.
I was wrong.
He grabbed the container of flour, opened it, grabbed a handful, and chased me around the island with it. I was easy to catch because I was laughing so hard, and when he finally did, he grabbed me around the waist with one strong arm as he proceeded to throw the handful on me. Unfortunately, the flour container was close by, and he was able to get more.
I finally squirmed out of his grasp and pushed the container away, and we are currently at a stalemate, standing across the kitchen island from each other, the flour between us.
“You got me way worse than I got you,” I say, my chest heaving from all the laughing and fighting to get away from him. Fortunately, even though I couldn’t get to the container with Graham’s arm around me, some of the flour on me transferred to him, so now his dark-gray sweater has some nice, big white spots on it. I feel like this is a small win.
“You started it,” he says.
“No, you started it when you gave me the salt,” I say.
“I’m still mad that didn’t work.”
I look at the containers of baking supplies down the counter and realize that the container holding the salt looks an awful lot like the one holding the sugar.
My mouth drops open. “Dr. Shackwell, did you buy identical containers on purpose so you could try to ruin my cake?”
“Of course not,” he says, but I can see the evil sparkle in his eyes.
“You did,” I say, not believing him for a second.
His lips pull up into a wide, award-winning smile. Graham is handsome, for sure. With those bright-blue eyes and that scruff of hair along his jaw. But when he smiles ... watch out. It’s probably a good thing he does it so little at work. He’d probably have even more people propositioning him in the supply room.
“You totally did,” I say.
“Maybe I did,” he says with a shrug.
“You are in so much trouble,” I say, lunging for the flour container, but Graham beats me to it, swiftly grabbing it. Reacting on pure instinct and fueled by the adrenaline pumping through me, even I’m surprised when I hoist myself onto the island counter and slide over to his side. Whether it’s the rush of adrenaline or Graham being momentarily caught off guard, I manage to catch up to him. Reaching for the open container of flour in his arms, determined to turn the tables, I grab for the corner, breaking it free from his grip, but not gaining full control. The container slips, landing with a thud, flour exploding and covering both of us in a white cloud.
I sputter, coughing because some got in my mouth. I look up to see Graham, the front of him covered in the fine white powder, as he swipes a hand down his face, and I start laughing. It’s one of those laughs that erupts from deep within, uncontrollable and infectious and taking on a life of its own. Tears are running down my face, I’m gasping for breath, and the more I try to stifle it, the worse it gets.
Graham is laughing too. The guttural sounds coming from him as he, too, struggles to catch a breath make it even harder for me to stop.
“Ya-ya-ya-you,” I wheeze, unable to say more than that since I can’t catch my breath. I point at the flour in his hair, and the laughter starts up again, both of us doubled over.
The timer on the oven goes off, and that’s what finally gets the laughter to slow.
Not to be thwarted—I’ve got a cake competition to win, after all—I run to the oven, leaving a trail of flour with every step, Graham right behind me.
While our cakes cool, we take a rag and dust ourselves off and then clean up the floury mess in the kitchen. Although we weren’t exactly throwing it all over the place, I have a feeling Graham will be finding remnants for a while.
My stomach aches from laughing so hard, and my lungs still feel like I’ve run a marathon, but honestly? I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun.
Lucy
Saturday, January 6, 4:54 p.m.
From GothamGuardian5 to PlainJane2:
What would your superpower be, if you could choose one? I’d choose either the power to fly because—do I even need to explain that?—or the ability to read someone’s mind, to know what they’re thinking. Not all the time, only when I want to.
