Page 43 of For Butter or for Worse
We both have the idea at the same time, our hands flying to the remainder of the batter in the bowl. I’m faster by only a second and manage to get a good slather across Georgie’s face before she’s stuffing a handful of slimy paste down my shirt. Gasping from the cold of it, I instinctively wrap my arms around her to hold her captive, but her messy hand is still free and ends up in my hair.
“That’s it.” Ignoring the shiver of pleasure that runs through me from her touch, I duck down and throw her over my shoulder. “You’re getting blasted.”
Georgie screams as I head for the industrial sink and the spray nozzle that has always felt akin to a fire hydrant with the way it gushes at high speed. “No! Royal! I give up! You win.”
I’m tempted to keep going, but I stop and set her back on her feet because she has never conceded before. But I keep hold of her in case I need to follow through with my threat when she inevitably tries to pull a fast one on me. Still, now that I have a good view of her face again, I can’t hold back my laugh. “You’re a mess.”
She smacks my chest half-heartedly, leaving her hand resting there. “I can’t believe you did that! And you can’t claim that I started it this time.”
No, I can’t, but I’m not finding the will to apologize. Not with the way she’s grinning at me right now. “You mean a faceful of macaron mess wasn’t part of your directions?” Using the heel of my hand, I brush some of the batter from her cheek, but it’s going to take a lot more than that to get her clean.
Despite the pale green mixture all over her skin, her eyes seem to glow beneath the kitchen lights, the most vivid green I’ve ever seen. I don’t know if anything will ever compare to her eyes. Windows to her incredible soul. “You know me better than that, Royal,” she says, leaning closer.
My heart starts pounding beneath her fingers, pushing me forward until my nose brushes hers. “Yeah, I do.”Please stay.
I can almost taste her, but a small voice in the back of my head reminds me there is no one we need to convince right now. If I kiss her now, it’s simply because I want to. And that will make this all so much messier. Maybe she’s thinking the same thing, or maybe my hesitation has communicated something else to her, but it’s Georgie who pulls away first.
“Um,” she says, taking a step back, “we need to let those sit for at least half an hour before we bake them. Maybe longer. But I should probably…”
Her eyes focus on something behind me, and I turn to see Cecily sitting on the counter nearest the door to the lobby. I have no idea how long she’s been there or how much of our interaction she saw, but she’s writing furiously on her iPad and grinning in a way that sends a chill down my spine. I don’t want to know what she thinks she’s learned tonight.
“You should go to bed,” I reluctantly tell Georgie. “I can clean up here.”
Maybe I imagine it, but she seems disappointed. “Are you sure? I can—”
“I’ve got this. You take care of you.”Stay.
“Okay.” She takes a step back and smiles. “Goodnight, Royal.”
That’s not the first time she called me that tonight, and for some reason the name doesn’t bother me. Maybe it’s because right now she feels more like the old Georgie, and in turn I feel more like myself for the first time in a long time.
I watch her leave arm in arm with Cecily, and when I run a hand through my hair and find it full of macaron batter, I can’t help but smile.
Chapter Fifteen
Georgie
For the next fewdays, Cecily says she has work to do and camps out in her hotel room, only joining me for lunch and dinner each day. She keeps our conversation to anything thatisn’tthe happenings in Willow Cove or my marriage, which is becoming increasingly more frustrating because she won’t say a word about what she’s planning to tell Mr. Vanderman.
The only comment shehasmade so far was the day after the macaron situation, after I found a little plastic baggie filled with poorly assembled macarons and tied with a ribbon. King baked the cookies, which didn’t rise properly, and sandwiched a few of them with light green frosting that was incredibly lumpy but properly proportioned. They weren’t much to look at, but they tasted good, and the fact that he finished the task without direction from me seemed to please Cecily.
“How sweet of your husband,” she said.
That has been the only mention of King indays, and I am terrified about what’s coming next from her.
I’ve seen King a couple of times, mostly when he’s on his way in to the surf shack. He tries to stop by the bakery whenever Mrs. Vanderman is in the lobby, and though we’ve avoided any kissing, like there’s an unspoken agreement between us to forgo that necessity if we can, I’ve started getting used to my morning hugs from Royal Kingston.
Hugs from that man are life-giving.
I’ve also fallen into the habit of calling him Royal again. He hasn’t corrected me, so either he’s giving in because he thinks it’s stubbornness fueling the change and is tired of fighting me, or he is starting to like his name. I don’t remember him ever letting anyone call him by his first name except me, and the allowance now has set a fire in my belly.
When it comes to this version of King, I think every step he allows me in his direction is a big thing. And I find myself wanting to take whatever steps I can.
“So you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to,” Emily says as she wipes down the front counter. For the first time in days, we don’t have any customers, and both of us are enjoying the quiet. At least, I was until Emily started her inquiry. “But how did you and King meet?”
Though I would like to keep reading this blog about which country has the best butter for baking, I can tell Emily has been wanting to ask this question for a long time. Probably since the day I showed up in Willow Cove.
I give her a smile and put my phone in my pocket. “It was actually here in the bakery when we were twelve.”
