Page 43 of Consume Me

Downstairs, I put all the ingredients I need on the kitchen counter. Baking has always anchored me. I did it with my mom and continued to do it even after she was gone. I feel her presence when I bake, and that helps whenever I miss her or when life becomes too much.

I hear the door open and close. I don’t have to look behind me to know who it is.

“I’m heading to the gym.”

Once again, my resolve crumbles. I know I’m pathetic, but because I believe in self-love, I give myself some grace. Feelings are not rational.

“Preparing to fight all my potential dates?” I ask and freeze when a deep laugh rumbles out of him.

I turn to him, enraptured by the raspy sound. He laughs with his whole body; his features lose that hardness, and his eyes flicker. I clutch my chest, the image so potent that it makes my heart want to climb up my throat and drop at his feet in awe.

“What’s so funny?” I ask breathlessly.

“That you’d think they stand a chance.”

I don’t know what pushes me in this moment, maybe closure or simply curiosity, but I blurt out. “What am I lacking? I’m aware you can’t choose who you like… I just…”

Every trace of levity vanishes from his face. “Never ever fucking think you lack something. Every motherfucking asshole on this planet would be lucky for you to give him the time of the day.”

“Okay, then…” But what I don’t say rings even louder:Why won’t you give me a chance, then?

“My answer won’t change. I am too fucked up for you. If I didn’t care about you, I would have taken you whenever you looked at me with those bewitching eyes. You’re not the one lacking—I am.”

Lucky me. He cares about me. I wish he wouldn’t, so at least I would get to experience a bit of my fantasy. He offered me the most awful closure—It’s not you, it’s me—but I’ll take it.

And then, he’s gone, always leaving things unfinished, the king of grumpy males.Whatever. It’s not like I’m not used to his abrupt departures.I turn around and prepare the muffins, but for the first time, it’s more of an automatic process than anything else. I add chocolate chips in some, white chocolate and raspberries to others, and my classics—blueberry and almond.

I take them out of the oven and place them on the marble island to cool. Knowing my friends, they will dig in quickly until there’s nothing left. It wouldn’t be the first time I don’t get to have one, but that never bothered me. Seeing them enjoy my baking is the best reward.

Blake is in the gym, surely punching the bag. It’s his go-to activity.

I never thought I’d be drawn to violence, which is absurd because my father trained both me and my brother. I can defend myself, but I never liked it. That changed when I saw Blake fighting––a monument of muscles, so damn graceful yet lethal. What started with me sneaking around and getting intel on him quickly turned into an obsession. He not only caught me every time, but he was flirty and charming and never called me out. Plus, he did the same, so it was kind of fun.

Before he left, I went to every one of his fights. It was pure adrenaline, my heart beating like crazy, worried he’d get beaten, but no one ever came close. But nothing compared to my worry about his alcohol problem.

He has always been a mystery wrapped in a conundrum. Since he returned, I haven’t seen him drink or jump at the first opportunity to get in the ring.

It’s the nurturer side in me. I’ve tried many times to switch it off, especially for him, but I’ve failed. He called it my savior syndrome. It’s not that, but I can’t just shut off my instinct of worrying and caring for the people who are important to me.

I place three muffins on a plate and walk down the basement stairs. Opening the door to the gym, I peek inside, watching Blake in his element. Sweat drips down his torso as he swings from left to right, rapidly changing hooks. The bag flies back from the raw force, rattling on its hinges.

I bite down the awed sound that wants to escape my mouth. It must have come out anyway because he cocks his head toward me.

“Who’s the stalker now?”

I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool while every atom in my body threatens to overheat.

“I didn’t want to interrupt you, but I made muffins.” I lift the plate to make my point and as a peace offering. Friends. One day, we’ll be genuine friends. Hopefully, it won’t take me a lifetime to get past my romantic feelings for him.

He jerks his chin at the chocolate chip one. “Is that for me?”

“All three are for you.”

He approaches me, and my hormones go into overdrive, seeing all those sculpted muscles on display. “You look as if you’re photoshopped,” I groan.

He chuckles, and the asshole flexes his muscles as if he needs to before he digs right into the chocolate chip muffin. Closing his eyes momentarily, a sound of delight parts his lips.

“You have me addicted to these, but everywhere I went for some, they wouldn’t even come close.”

---