Page 96 of Cakes for the Grump
“Actually, I’m partial to other sucking.”
As soon as the words are out, I’m cursing myself. My hand reaches and clutches the little handle above my head, the one you can hold onto when a particularly vigorous turn is made. The road in front is straight. The only sudden turn is the one I’ve set this conversation on. I must course-correct. “Not suckinglikethat. Not that I don’t mind reciprocating pleasure on a partner’s body in that spot, because I do enjoy that. I meant—my own tastes. On my own body. Um, my décolletage area—and below. I enjoy that. For suckage. On me.”
Luke stabs the button that lowers the window. Wind comes in and slaps his face. He seems to welcome it.
I’m starting to get cold, but thankfully in a few more minutes, we arrive at our destination. He parks beside an architecturally medieval building situated in the corner of a plaza. There isn’t obvious signage outside. Only a deeply green wooden door Luke walks us through.
Inside is a warmly lit restaurant front, walls done in a rustic monochromatic beige. Wooden beams bracket the walls, forming an expanded textural grid you notice only when you step back far enough. Red pendant lights hang above an older black woman with a stylish buzz cut who brightens when she sees us. “Welcome. I am Verity. You are the last to arrive. Quick. Come to the kitchen. The other couples are waiting.”
What couples?
We pass through a set of swinging doors and step inside a commercial restaurant kitchen with three separate cooking stations. Each one has acounter, stovetop, sink, and stocked pantry. In front of each station is a small dining table set up with long tapered candles, red wine, and a spread of cheeses and sliced bread.
Already in the room are two other couples. Two young women who look to be in their thirties, and an elderly man and woman who look to be in their seventies. The couples have split up. One has taken up a spot behind the cooking station, and the other is seated at their respective dining table.
I elbow Luke. “You brought me here to cook?”
He leads me to our empty cooking station, and gestures for me to sit at the table. “Of course not. I’m learning how to cook for you.”
“That’s right,” says Verity loudly to the group. “This is a cooking class where one partner learns how to cook while the other partner drinks wine and watches them do all the work. Let us begin.”
I’ve perished and been revived. If questioned, I can now say the single sexiest thing I have witnessed is Luke Abbot putting on an apron. He doesn’t notice me goggling at him, too busy rolling up his sleeves.
Verity introduces the dish the cooking partners are going to make from scratch. My eyebrows shoot up.
“I know this isn’t a beginner pasta,” she says. “But I think watching the non-cooker sweat a little as they try impressing you will be both sweet and charming. Don’t worry, they’ve got detailed instructions in front of them, and I’ll be walking around to help them with the recipe. Those sitting and enjoying their wine through this experience can encourage them along, but don’t have to worry about doing any of the labor of cooking tonight. Sit back and enjoy.”
Luke pours me out a glass of wine, and another for himself. “Be gentle with me.”
“You seem nervous,” I tease. “Focus on your breathing. It will help you relax your muscles. Also, sugar and salt may look the same, but they are not.”
“I dare hope I’m not a complete imbecile.”
The women beside us gush reassuring sentiments to each other. As for the elderly couple, they are smooching ferociously as if parting for war, not for the paltry amount of distance this activity requires.
My hands fold under my chin. “Hopefully, I don’t expire after one bite.”
“The largeness of belief you have in me is unparalleled.”
“I do believe in you. Unrelated and for no reason at all, I’m also wondering about directions to the closest medical facility.”
“Eating my food will make you feel so alive,” quips Luke.
“Doesn’t one feel a rush of adrenaline when approaching the brink of a fatal accident?”
We’re both suppressing our grins, I can tell.
“Enough dawdling,” says Verity to the group. “Cookers, please start preparing the appetizers.”
For the next fifteen minutes, I sip tasty wine and watch Luke make salad dressing from scratch. He rereads the menu several times, and measures each ingredient out twice. His eyebrows remain furrowed. It’s clear he is trying really hard.
When he starts whisking the mixture, words topple out of my mouth. “You’ve got good hands.”
He stops mid-stroke and looks at me, baffled by the compliment. Do I not usually give him any? “Not as good as yours,” he says. “They were one of the first things I noticed when I met you.”
“You mean when you ambushed me in your office over the cake I left behind?”
“You talk with your hands. Your hands are strong. Admirable.”
