AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Closing the freezer, he blurts out, “I’ll be back in five minutes,” then he slides past me and runs outside.
I dash over to the window overlooking his front lawn. Blackmore jogs to a house across the street, rifles through his pockets, seems to find a key, opens the front door, and goes in. What the heck?
Sooner than expected, he pops out with a large paper bag in his hands. Once back inside, he checks his watch. “Three minutes. Better than promised.”
We return to the kitchen, and he starts emptying the contents of the paper bag onto the black granite kitchen island.
“Is there a secret grocery store or restaurant in that house?” I tilt my head in the direction of the residence in question.
“Something like that.” A white glass bowl and a box of frozen taquitos hit the granite first.
“I get out of the house for the first time in forever, and all I get for it is frozen taquitos?” I surprise myself by teasing him again, but hey, it’s better than swooning. I was unwell before, so I have that excuse, but now that I’m all back to normal again, I’ll do my best to keep the swooning to the minimum.
“I don’t spend a lot of time at home. If I want something fresh, I get takeout or eat at the Davenports’. When was the last time you had a frozen taquito anyway?”
“Never.” I settle upon a stool next to the island.
Blackmore looks up at me from the bag in a slow, disbelieving way.
I shrug. “Mock away.”
“All right, princess.” He upends the rest of the bag. “You get frozen taquitos, peanut butter and apples, cheese and crackers, and Powerade.”
I laugh at how he called me a princess. Normally I would get up in arms about it, but the way he does it, all down-to-earth, paints the moniker with a cozy feel. “What’s in the bowl?”
“Gabe will kill me for this bowl tomorrow. The man served over a decade in a national intelligence service, but I’m convinced he missed his calling as a chef. This”—he gives the bowl a loving pat—“is Gabe Davenport’s Sunday Pud. He makes it every Sunday, lets it sit for a day or two to let the flavors marry each other, then it’s heaven. Ice cream for bad days? Please. I’ve seen Juliette cry-hug this very bowl more times than I can count.”
He mentions Juliette, so of course, my insatiable curiosity crawls out of its den. “Is that how you became best friends with her? You live across the street?”
Blackmore drums his fingertips on the bowl’s lid. I swear his black and orange hair rises on its ends.
“You owe me the true story, remember?” With anyone else, I’d drop it and go away, but I want to poke Blackmore in all the raw spots.
He chuckles—a wicked, pleased sound. “No. I promised to tell you one thing I don’t like to think about. I hate thinking about our upcoming album. It’s going to be such a nasty, rotten waste of effort—”
“You’re a flipping cheater!” I can’t believe how easy it was for him to lure me in. He must be right. I am starved for drama and life outside my own.
Leaning his hands on the edge of the stove behind him, he waggles his eyebrows. “What did you expect? That I’d bare my soul to you? The only girl I’ll ever tell my darkest secrets to…” His eyes do that up-and-down scan of me again, and I look for something to throw at him. “Don’t get any ideas just because you’re here.”
The only way I can react to his absurd statement is to laugh. “You think I’ll lose sleep over your secrets? Wilt away in your unrequited love all on your own.”
“I’m not in love with Juliette. Haven’t you been listening?” He throws his hand over the stove and punches buttons to fire up the oven without looking. How many times has he eaten the frozen taquitos to know the temperature required for reviving them?
“You can tell me, you know,” I say. “Since I’m no competition.”
“I regret everything.” He pulls over a stool and sits across from me. “Inviting you out to dinner, bringing you here, meeting you in general.”
He says that, but his face is aglow with pleasure. I think that’s what it is. I never know what he’s truly thinking.
“Glad to make an impression.” I drag over the bowl, take off the lid, and dip my finger into what looks like an ordinary butterscotch pudding. As soon as I taste it, though, my jaw drops.
“Right?” Blackmore offers me a spoon.
“What is this genius devilry?” Silky, sweet but not cloying, and tastes like a million bucks. I grab the spoon and shovel a heap of pudding into my mouth then turn into pudding myself. My taste buds frolic in the perfect, caramel goodness with hints of salt and glory.
“Now you know why I risked my life for this.” He lifts the whipping cream can, offering to top my next bite.
“I forgive you,” I say through my next mouthful. “For everything.”
