Page 47 of Cream and Punishment
But that would be setting myself up for heartache, and, despite how the events of the past few weeks might make it appear, I was only two-thirds idiot. So there.
“Hey, Chef.” Max greeted me with his characteristic grin as I opened the door, though I could’ve sworn his eyes lingered on my hair and my exposed shoulders under my flowy tank top. But that was probably the delusion talking.
He’d changed before coming over, based on his casual T-shirt and the jeans hugging his thighs in the most delicious way. Doing the whole world a favor, those pants.Sweet honey lemon drops, who knew denim could love someoneso. much.
God really must pick favorites.
I unstuck my tongue from the roof of my mouth, where it had decided to harbor like a fugitive. “Hey, Max. Come on in.”
He entered, giving me a heavenly whiff of his cologne as he passed.
“Sweet summer sausages,” I muttered, desperately fighting the urge to close my eyes against the aroma. And here I’d thought it impossible for anything to tempt me away from the smell of fresh pasta and garlic-covered carbs.
“Is that a chicken nugget pillow?” he asked, standing in front of my decrepit couch.
My latest addition to my pillow collection stood out like a carrot in a bag of cotton balls against the ratty furniture. It even stood out against the donut and turkey leg pillows stacked behind it because, hello,dinosaurchicken nugget.
“It’s amazing, right?” I patted its head affectionately on my way to the table. “I’m thinking Ned for its name. Ned the nugget.”
“I love it.” He sat on the couch to test the squishiness of the eclectic pillows. The couch creaked ominously, as it did every time anything lighter than a croissant sat on it. “Comfy, too. Do they all have names?”
“Naturally.” I pointed at each one as I listed them off. “There’s Debby the drumstick, Ned the Nugget, and Vincent Van Donut.”
“I changed my mind. The donut is my new favorite.”
I laughed. “Lex picked the name, as well as Bread Sheeran, the giant baguette pillow on my bed.”
It wasn’t until I dug out the last throw pillow from behind Debby that I noticed Max holding a bottle of wine.Chocolate cinnamon bears, had he been holding that this whole time and I hadn’t noticed? Poor guy.
For the record, I blamed the jeans.
“Oh, sorry, I can put that on the table for you,” I offered, finally relieving him of his offering.
He cast the last pillow, a square one embroidered with a cannoli wearing a halo and the words “holy cannoli” written under it, a lingering glance before standing. “My sister claims that wine is a woman’s best friend, and I’ve been looking for an occasion to drink it, so it seemed fitting.”
I chuckled, trying to shake the prickles of discomfort cropping up along the back of my neck. “I’m honored. But, uh” —I shifted uneasily and grimaced— “I actually don’t drink. Sorry.”
He smiled easily and winked. “In that case, now I know what I’m giving my sister for her birthday.”
“You can still drink it,” I rushed out, alternating between crossing my arms over my midsection and tugging on my hair. Why were hands so awkward? How did anyone ever know what to do with them? “Don’t deprive yourself on my account.”
“I don’t drink much, either, actually.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, looking as relaxed as if we were lounging on a beach somewhere instead of wading through the waters I’d tainted with my awkwardness. “Part of the nature of the job, for one.”
I let out a nervous chuckle. “I can imagine.”
And really, between potentially being called in to work at any time and dealing with the fallout of drugs and addiction daily, no one would bat an eye if he skipped the alcohol. Someone enrolled in culinary school, however… there had beena lotof questions. And pressure.
“I’m sure the wine is amazing, it’s just that I—”
“Dekker.” He gently cut me off with the warmth of his hand on my elbow. “You don’t have to justify your boundaries. To anyone, and especially not to me.”
I nodded, my throat tightening with gratitude. Normally, I’d jump at the chance to avoid this discussion and the emotions it would inevitably stir up. I’d smile and say “great” and then move on with the rest of the evening pretending nothing happened. But, oddly enough, Iwantedhim to know. Now that he knew this small thing about me, I wanted him tounderstand. To understandwhy, and to understandme, I guess. Or try to. Knowing he didn’t require anything from me was exactly what gave me the desire to give him pieces of myself.
“I…wantto tell you,” I finally managed.
His gaze wandered to the table, already set and ready for us. “How about we get situated first, and if you still want to tell me, I’d love to hear all about it. And if you’ve decided you’d rather not, we move on. No problem.” He squeezed my elbow gently before pulling away, his hand leaving a trail of fire along my forearm briefly before it was gone. “I want you to share things because you want to in any circumstance, not because it feels like the peacekeeping decision in the moment.”
“That’s…” I hesitated, unsure how I wanted to finish the sentence.
