Page 89 of Cream and Punishment
He smirked, looking over my shoulder at the recipe and sending chills up my spine from his proximity. “So this is the simplified version I need so I don’t mess it up again.”
“It’s still possible to mess it up, so don’t get too excited.”
“But that’s whyyou’rehere.” He shifted so he was at my side instead, finally allowing me to breathe easier. “You’re a professional.”
“Eh—” I waved him off, holding out his phone for him to take back. “Professionals aren’t perfect. Can you preheat the oven? I’m going to get some ramekins from my apartment, and I’ll be right back.”
He saluted me, eyes twinkling, and set to complete his duty.
Finding my ramekins took longer than I’d anticipated, mostly because I hadn’t used them since unpacking everything. I balanced them in my hands as I made my way back to his apartment, hesitating outside his door. He knew I was coming back, and I’d left it unlocked. Would it be rude to just walk back in? Or would that be overstepping?
After debating with myself outside his door like a crazy person, I settled on knocking on the door as I walked in. Of course, knocking while opening a door was much easier without holding porcelain ramekins, so my knock was more like a love tap. But surely it was the thought that counted, right?
I padded into his apartment, the sounds of Bon Jovi’sLiving on a Prayerplaying from my speaker. When I neared the kitchen, I stopped short.
Max was dancing.
Badly.
I stifled a laugh, watching with amusement as he kicked and shimmied. While it was mostly on beat, the uncoordinated movements certainly wouldn’t win any prizes onDancing with the Stars. When the guitar solo came on, he played his own air guitar as he hopped over to the fridge. He sang along to the song, fudging half the lyrics as he pulled out some eggs. Right as the epic key change came, he spun with his head bobbing enthusiastically, caught sight of me watching him, and froze. The eggs dropped from his hands, cracking and splattering on the ground.
His eyes widened like dinner plates, and I swear I saw him swallow hard. “Dekker, hi. Uh, how long have you been standing there?”
“Not nearly long enough,” I squeaked out, losing the battle against the laughter trying to break out. I bit my lip, clearing my throat as if I’d been harboring a frog in there instead of a squadron of giggles. “Please, don’t stop on account of me.”
He laughed nervously as he stooped to wipe up the eggs. This was the most shaken I’d seen him. Ever. “I think we should get back to the recipe, actually.”
“That’s too bad, really,” I mused, unloading the ramekins onto the counter. “I’m pretty sure the next song isDon’t Stop Believing.”
He hesitated, washcloth squishing around the eggy mess.
I capitalized on this, relishing the temporary turning of the tables. For the first time,Icaughthimdoing something weird or goofy. “There’s a pretty great guitar solo in that song as well, you know. All you’re missing are your backup singers and dancers.”
“In that case, I accept your offer.”
I paused. “What offer? I don’t remember offering anything.”
He flicked the eggshells and innards into the trash, his voice a little too casual. “Weren’t you offering to be my backup dancer?”
I laughed. “Uh-uh, mister. I don’t do‘backup.’ I’m the main event.”
Believe me, I’ve tried not to be. But if his dance moves were bad, mine were deplorable. Kind of hard to blend into the background when you were so… talented.
He pretended to consider this, washing and wringing out the cloth. “Hmm, I suppose I can share the spotlight, then.” The beginning chords ofDon’t Stop Believingplayed, and he raised an eyebrow. “Last chance. Not just anyone can share the stage with such a gifted dancer.”
I resisted, determined to let him have the brunt of the embarrassment for once. Unfortunately, this song was, of course, amazing. I pretended to focus wholeheartedly on pouring the caramel sauce into the bottom of each ramekin and putting them in the preheating oven. He danced in his adorably awful way behind me, trying to lure me in.
I was about to add the first ingredient to the blender when he swooped me into a spin. My protest died on my lips as I twirled closer to him. He wiggled his eyebrows mischievously, singing along to Journey as the chorus rang out. He held each of my hands in his own, moving with me in a graceless twist-like move.
I relented with a laugh, allowing myself to sing along. Even though my moves could rival his own in how horrible they were, the way his smile lit up the room when I joined in was worth it. I’d never had anyone to dance with as I baked. Or period. And after experiencing that with Max, I didn’t want to go back. Ever.
thirty
Ittooksomemoredance moves and lip syncing, but we eventually slid the flans into the waiting oven. Technically, once the flans were done, they should cool and chill overnight, so I wasn’t really needed anymore, but I didn’t have to tell him yet. I could be useful in helping to determine when they were done without being burnt, so I’d take whatever excuse I could to spend more time with him.
Even if it meant havingthe talk.
Which, let the record show, Max wasted no time in jumping into. The second I straightened from shutting the oven door, he grabbed my hands in his.
