Page 103 of Cakes for the Grump
ME
I’m afraid to ask, but what is your definition of more?
LUKE
You won’t be disappointed.
I should resist on principle, shouldn’t I?
ME
I’m not sure I will be able to accept it.
LUKE
You’ll be able to take it.
ME
How can you be so sure?
LUKE
Because I’ll make sure of it.
I’m fanning myself as I walk up to the building. There’s been a rush of a heat wave. Something a very cold shower and iced tea can only solve. And then maybe alone time, so I stop taking innuendos literally. Imagining Luke coming to my room and pulling himself out.“You’ll be able to take it. Because I’ll make sure of it.”
What level of girth is the right fit? Certain muscles haven’t been stretched in a while. It will take some pushing. Extended prep work with fingers is a must, although his are of substantial width too, so how many?—
It’s confirmed, I’m a pervert who needs alone time. I’m looking forward to it as I ride the elevator up to the top floor. Perhaps a bath is in order after dinner. My stomach grumbles. Much to my appetite’s displeasure, etiquette classes also mean tiny, feeble, little food portions you are supposed to chew on and swallow seamlessly as if one is not eating at all.
Maybe I’ll heat up something quick. Though I didn’t share this with Luke, the classes are actually long, exhausting, and miserably dull. I’m not up for cooking anything fancy. It’s a see-what-is-in-the-fridge-and-slop-it-together-night.
I hear music when I walk into the apartment. Following it, I see Luke Abbot is cooking in a black shirt and jeans. He is in the kitchen finishing up a pasta dish. His forearms flex as he chops up the accompanying side salad. There is wine airing out on the side. He looks up at me, gawping at him. “Right on time. Dinner is ready.”
“Oh—you didn’t have to do this,” I say.
“I’m learning,” he says, tossing the salad in a bowl, and mixing it thoroughly.
“Aren’t you exhausted? I know you don’t sleep enough hours.”
“We both are. So let’s eat and turn off our brains.”
I look over the spread. He’s taken the pasta recipe he’s already learned and tweaked it slightly to make it different. Penne tossed with roasted tomatoes, roasted eggplant, Parmesan, and oregano.
“How did you know?” I ask.
“Cookbook. Don’t look at the bin. There lies my failed firstattempt.”
I start setting the table. “So, we’re turning off our brains?”
“About anything work-related. Other topics can stay open.”
He brings the dish of pasta over and uses tongs to fill our plates. The salad is placed between us. Wine is poured.
I sit down. “No work? Whatever will we talk about?”
His mouth curves. “Surely something. What do normal people discuss over the dinner table? Not politics or news. Let’s go with something personal. You start.”
