Page 37 of Temptation at Randy's

“A… system.” Arlene blinked.

“With my dishwasher,” I clarified.

It was actually true. I stood by the fact that my kitchen could be ten times better, but one thing it wasn’t was dirty.

“Oh. Okay, then.”

Thankfully, my system wasn’t super elaborate or took a lot of time. I hadn’t realized how much my skin would prickle with awareness just because someone was watching me put plates in an electrical appliance.

Once that was done, it meant going back to the couch. I sat down first, and Arlene followed. For a second, I watched, wondering. Was she going to sit right next to me now that we’d had sex? Or was she going to feel more self-conscious and keep her distance?

After one second where she stood still, probably debating the options in her head, Arlene chose a middle ground of sorts. Our knees brushed together, but she was still theoretically on her side of the couch.

I could so easily pull her closer if I wanted, though.

I wasn’t planning on doing it yet, but it was always good to know what my options were.

“Did you want to watch something specific?”

“I’m good with whatever,” Arlene rushed to answer.

It made me suspicious right away. Then again, it could just be her nerves. I should remind myself to slow my roll—we’d only just met, pretty much. I might not be processing last night yet, but we had to be responsible here, right?

“Okay. Netflix has baking shows, right?”

That got her talking again about the last season of a show she hadn’t watched yet.

Good. One thing I didn’t have to decide from scratch. I really was not a TV person. The main reason I had one was that it came with the house when I signed the lease. I’m not sure I would’ve bought one otherwise. My laptop worked just fine on the rare occasion I wanted to watch something.

“You’re going to have to explain everything like I’m five.”

Arlene squeaked. “Uh, sure. I mean, might be hard, but I’ll try.”

I nodded. Maybe after watching a couple of episodes, talking about The Video TM would feel less asphyxiating. Or it would come up naturally in conversation, and I wouldn’t clam up completely.

For now, I was happy to hear her theories about the different judges and why it didn’t make any sense that one of the women was there to begin with.

She was probably right. I was once invited to judge a local dancing competition. I knew nothing about dancing.

I also knew that, unlike me, many people accepted those invites for the hype of it.

Ugh. I didn’t want to spend today thinking about how much the influencer world sucked. It wasn’t as if I could disconnect from it during the week—who would’ve thought influencers were the main employers of the PR company that took a chance on me? But still.

I’d never been a huge fan—the shine had faded pretty damn fast—and that wasn’t going to change now.

“Okay, what’s wrong with those cookies now?” I teased in my driest tone possible.

Arlene had been nitpicking absolutely everything since they started baking. It looked fine to me, but I wasn’t the expert here.

And the way she huffed and got all indignant was adorable as fuck.

“I mean, nothing per se.” She was chewing on her lip, though. Poker would not be her thing. Then again, it could be fun to talk her into playing strip poker sometime. I had never played, but I imagined it would be fun to see just how flushed she could get. “I would’ve just added a mix of dark and milk chocolate chips to elevate the overall flavor.”

“Is that a thing?” I frowned.

“It’s totally a thing. Lots of fancy bakeries do it,” she said. My arm found the back of her head. Her hair was stupidly soft. “My grandma learned it from a baker that lived down the street.”

It did not surprise me that her family came from a place with fancy bakers down the street. It wasn’t a bad thing—just an observation about the way she held herself sometimes. I wasn’t one to talk, anyway. As little contact as I now had with them, I grew up privileged.

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