Page 49 of Sugar Baby Mine

“Yes!” I drop the spoon to the counter, and cream splatters across the polished concrete. “There’s just something nostalgic about it without ever even experiencing it before.”

“Sounds like some world travel is in your future,” he says before taking the spoon from me and dropping several dollops of the whipped cream in with the peanut butter mixture.

“Eventually. Now you answer the question.”

“I’d like to go to Oktoberfest—the real one, in Munich. It’s already over for this year, but sometime soon.”

Oh, that would be so fun, actually. I went to the one here in New York at Pier 15 the year I turned twenty-one and was still so excited I could drink alcohol. I was sick for days after attending. I can’t remember anything I did, but I can remember it was a good time. It’s surprising I can still drink beer at all without wanting to puke.

“Why haven’t you been? You have the time and money, I’m sure.”

Ben’s shoulders droop the barest hint. “Maybe, but I don’t want to go by myself.”

“Fred?”

“Sober for fifteen years.”

“Family?”

“My brother suggested the one here in town. He doesn’t have an interest in flying for that long, plus he has young kids.”

“Other friends?”

“Nobody I’d want to go on a trip with like that.”

I’m scrambling even as he guides me to work the whipped cream into the peanut butter concoction.

“Me?”

His hands pause over mine, and I look up over my shoulder at him. He’s quiet, assessing in the way he sweeps over my face with his gaze so intent and hooded eyes so dark. There’s something he’s looking for, but I’m not sure if he finds it. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not, either.

“If we’re still together next year,” he says after a beat.

I’m not sure why that destroys me inside. Ripples my insides, twists my gut, tightens my lungs.

“Of course. It sounds fun.” I shrug.

Ben takes the bowl of peanut butter mousse and pulls open the drawer, stretching out a piece of plastic wrap over it before putting it in the fridge to chill. He turns the burner off under the pot of noodles before grabbing a wooden spoon and holding the handle out to me.

“Time for the flavor.”

He instructs me on how to make the sauce, letting me do it all, including chopping the garlic and berating me for not tucking my knuckles. Also, capers seem gross, but apparently “they’re necessary.” Then we’re mixing the chicken and the sauce, plating the noodles, and all of a sudden it’s a fucking meal.

“Okay, you definitely held my hand through that, but this looks so good.”

“You did great. I think you’d be able to follow a recipe just fine.”

I scrunch my nose up as we settle on the stools at the island. “Maybe if you’re the one reading it to me.”

“I’ll read to you anytime you want.”

I might have to take him up on that, but the thought disappears when I take a bite of our food.

“Oh my God. What the fuck?”

His brows draw up, and he pauses with his fork midway to his mouth. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s toogood. Holy shit, I’m a fucking chef.”

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