Page 106 of Cakes for the Grump
This is him not touching me properly?!
We stare, pupils bleeding into each other.
“It’s been a while, I guess,” I confess. “But?—”
“We—”
“This—”
“There’s chemistry,” he rasps out.
“Good practice,” I joke weakly.
“Practice—right. We shouldn’t?—”
“Take it farther?”
“I’m days away from securing the biggest upset in my family business,” Luke grits out. “Everything I’ve worked my whole life towards is within reach. No time off. It’s the only thing I’ve dedicated myself to.”
“And I’m supposed to help you.”
“I think of you. When I shouldn’t.” He lets go of the wall, steps back. “Actually, always.”
“You’re the one taking over my brain!” I complain. “Especially since I’ve got my semi-final round coming up soon. MealKit Masala is going to announce it any day now. I should practice my recipes. Ineedto.”
“We should be smart,” Luke says.
“And this would be distracting.”
“I wouldn’t think of anything else. It’s bad enough already.”
“And I can’t fuck up my thing.” I put some distance between us andcross my arms. “It’s settled. We should go—” I gesture to his generous bulge and then back at my skirt. “—take care of ourselves individually. Right now. I’m leaving.”
My escape is brisk. I go straight to my room and I—to put it crudely—fuck myself with my own fingers until the orgasm crashes into me like an explosion behind my eyes.
It’s not enough.
TWENTY-SEVEN
We don’t seeeach other for a while.
That should be enough to siphon off any problematic arouse-y feelings, especially since the semi-final round of the CUM competition has started. This time they give us five days to think up an innovative and tasty meal kit concept centered around the sandwich. To continue the theme, I brainstorm fusion Punjabi-themed flavors.
Since Luke isn’t home these days, I spend all day and a lot of the night in the kitchen. This is too important not to put everything into it.
Eventually, I land on a dish. A spaghetti sandwich, but not just one made with simple tomato sauce, and herbs. My spaghetti starts with tarka. A process that blooms spices, onions, and chiles in ghee. What takes me longer to perfect is the balance of the sauce. Tomatoes are acidic, so combining a bit of tamarind in there makes it more sour—which means I must also include sugar. It’s a sweet and sour, Indian-spiced spaghetti put between two pieces of white bread.
I know.
Massive risk.
I’ve got no choice but to produce a recipe no one has seen before. With the caliber of chefs I’m competing with, I have to show up loudly. This is my shot to put myself out there and to prove to the judges I can bringsomething new to their company as a real recipe developer. To convince them I’m not reductive or referential but an original chef.
The day after I send in my version of a sandwich, I meet Luke at a small, private charity event. He’s elevated his usual handsome snobbery by wearing a fitted herringbone tweed suit paired with a matching vest. I’ve got a floor-length gown in a matching navy that cinches my waist with a built-in corset, leaves the corners of my shoulders bare, and floats away from the rest of my body.
A few paparazzi hang around the front entrance. The people inside are rich, not famous. They might snap a photo of me, but it should only be circulated in small circles. The world cares when Abbot Industries makes a wrong move. They don’t necessarily follow Luke Abbot’s personal life. He hasn’t given them a reason to care. Yet.
Mr. Duncan believes our pairing will make a bigger splash than we think. It’s a Cinderella story. I’d rather hope that’s not true.
