Page 60 of That Reunited Feeling

“Oh, it will be.” She rubs her hands together and heads to the teacher’s table at the front of the class.

“Seriously?” Tom asks. Or rather pleads. Actually, it might be more on the verge of a beg. Or an implore.

“Yup. And this is why you need an assistant. You should have checked what you were booking, shouldn’t you?”

I drag him toward the two tables at the back.

Each work surface has a white cutting board in the middle, bearing a large mold. Surrounding them are glass and plastic bowls, spoons, a spatula, and a piping bag.

Tom takes his place behind his table and looks down at the mold. His eyelids drift closed for a second, and his chest heaves with a long, deep intake of air.

He sighs it out with a “fuck” under his breath.

I fight the guffaw rising in my chest as he slowly, oh so slowly, turns to look at me, sucking on his teeth and fixing me with eyes full of a potent mix of sex and despair. “We’re making chocolate dicks, aren’t we?”

17

TOM

The cheers and the chants of “Go, Katie! Go, Katie!” die down after Delia’s toast to the bride-to-be.

Katie swallows the last of her sparkling wine and holds up the glass in victory.

Suddenly, she slams her hand over her mouth and emits a loud, rumbly belch that threatens to rattle the chocolates off the shelves. The rest of the party erupts in hysterical laughter.

“Great! Let’s get started,” Delia announces, completely unperturbed.

So much for the quiet cozy chocolate workshop I hoped might have me feeding Hannah delicious sensual morsels and her licking the melted bits from my fingers.

This is like being…well, it’s like being the only guy at a raucous, drunker-by-the-second bachelorette party for a stranger. Which is every bit as excruciating as it sounds.

It doesn’t help that the women have already dubbed me The Hot Brit. Even though my accent is a mash-up. Americans say Isound British, Brits say I sound American. So I guess my accent is another part of me that isn’t sure where it belongs.

Hannah rubs her hands together with glee, enjoying every second of my torture.

Fuck, I’m a fool for booking us into this.

But since Hannah won’t let us leave and the aim of my game here is to make her happy, which, watching me hate every second of this seems to be successfully achieving, I’m stuck with it.

“Okay,” Delia says from her table facing the class, “you now all have three bowls of melted chocolate in front of you—dark, milk, and white. And we’re going to need to work swiftly before they start to set.”

“Excellent. The sooner we’re done, the better,” I say to myself.

“That’s not exactly getting into the spirit, is it?” Hannah whispers with an evil grin.

“The spirit of chocolate dicks is not a spirit I ever wish to enter into,” I whisper back.

She sucks in her lips to contain her smile as Delia continues.

“First, pick the color you want your penis to be.” She says it matter-of-factly, as if asking someone which shade of paint they’d like for their dining room walls.

“What color will your penis be, Tom?” Hannah asks way louder than necessary. She’s trying to keep a poker face but seems unable to prevent her mouth from twitching at the corners.

“I’m using milk,” Maid of Honor says in a deep, husky voice. “Definitely milk. Velvety. And smooth.”

“Pearly white and never seen the sun,” Mother of the Bride declares. “It’s what I’m used to.”

Hannah grabs a napkin and snorts into it, while Katie makes a barf face at the reference to her father’s genitals.

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