Page 26 of Cakes for the Grump
Dutifully arrivingan hour earlier than normal for my next shift, I jump backward when I see the kitchen is not empty.
He is there. Sitting on a barstool. On the opposite side of the island with his elbows up, doing a Sudoku puzzle with one hand, and using his other hand to scroll through data reports on a tablet.
He doesn’t glance up at me.
However,Istare.
He’s wearing an all-black suit today, and it defines his frame in authoritative lines. Annoyingly strong in contrast if you ask me. To put so much emphasis on the breadth of your shoulders angling down to a narrow waist, and swathing your muscular arm articulations with such eye-catching darkness must be narcissistic. Someone ought to replace Luke Abbot’s wardrobe with those sweaters that double as couch blankets to teach him a lesson.
I permit myself a quick glare, since he isn’t looking. In what capacity is my employer in the kitchen with me? Is it to supervise, monitor, and judge? Or is he costuming as an undertaker to remind me of his immutable power?
With a curiously dry throat, I ask, “Do you want tea?”
Cool steel-gray eyes slide over to me.
I feel it. A surge of frisson, this cord of adrenaline threaded with bated breath and overstimulated skin.
“Sure.”
“Okay.”
It’s the politest exchange we’ve had yet, and I find myself needing to—with much effort—hold back a rush of demanding questions.
Why do I have to get up at the crack of dawn to serve you the most basic tea with no added components, only hot water and a dinky bag of Earl Grey? What kind of bonkers madman completes a numbers puzzle in pen? Why does someone so insufferable get gifted with great hair?
But I bite my tongue.
Technically, it ishiskitchen.
He needs no reason to be here, nor to request my presence at the same time. Good thing he leaves right after finishing his tea. Fifteen minutes of overlap. The rest of my day goes as normal.
The next day, he is back in the kitchen again. Our fifteen minutes of overlap pass in the same exact way.
Then the next day, it happens again.
It’s at this point, after a string of civil “Good mornings” are exchanged, that I understand Luke isn’t trying to intimidate me, but actually thinks we are spending time together.
It’s a part of his ploy to gain my friendship.
He really is bad at this.
And it would be completely hilarious if he wasn’t also a distracting addition to my day. He has a way of sucking up space and energy, and the brisk business-like way he absorbs morning reports and off-handedly does Sudoku in his head is veritably impressive. Thank god it’s—once again—only fifteen minutes of my day.
I’ll get used to it.And conveniently not tell him that his mere presence is not powerful enough to kickstart any sort of friendship.If he believes it will, that’s his problem. Not mine.
Two days later, I stand, shocked in the kitchen.
This bastard changed the pattern.
There is no need to busy myself with making tea, since he already has two cups ready and steaming.
I put away my bag, take off my sweater, and don my apron. Then I walk slowly over and take a cautious sip from the cup on my side of the table. Then another.
It’smytea.
Made to my exact specifications: black tea steeped for ten-ish minutesbefore honey and a touch of milk stirs in to create a perfectly muddy and slightly sweet brew.
How?
