Page 34 of Cakes for the Grump
I wave him on, rather uncaring about such a catastrophe.
“I find myself not hating—enjoying even—” He clears his throat and looks down at his morning data report. It must be dense. Why didn’t he finish his sentence? Does he really have nothing good to say about me other than a comment on the condition of my hand itches?
“What?” I ask, rather impatiently. “What do you enjoy?”
“This.”
“This?”
“Yes. This.”
It takes a good few more seconds, but finally, I get it. He meansthis, the whole thing happening between us. Luke has admitted our battle—if it can still be called that—to be friends isn’t altogether unpleasant.
To this confession, I’ve no idea how to react. Actually, that’s a lie. I’m reacting by continually reminding myself how worlds apart Luke and I are, and that we meet at this morning’s intersection of conversation out of necessity and random fate—nothing else. And that I should remember we are both using each other, even if it is unequally. He is playing nice, so I agreed to join him at a conference because Mr. Duncan said it was a good idea and he trusts Mr. Duncan. And I am using Luke to pay my bills and to have access to his kitchen…if…when…if…whenI make it to the next round of the CUM competition.
Regardless, I gather awkwardness in my expression. “I don’t know—what—um?—”
“I’m leaving, Rita,” he says, tersely enough to indicate the moment is over.
He gathers his tablet and goes.
And I am left sitting in the quiet kitchen, alone with my pounding heart.
The air still smells of his expensive cologne.
Despite having a full day of work left, I stay still, longer than any other morning before.
He likes this. This.
ELEVEN
It’sFriday morning and we are drinking tea. I’m in a really good mood for some reason, and everything is as it usually is when a man in a fuzzy robe walks into the kitchen. He’s slim like a marionette and wears thick-framed glasses that magnify his brown eyes like an anime character. Lush brown curls shimmy around his head as he traverses the kitchen with the elegance of a trained dancer.
Stepping closer, he stares intently at me.
Likewise, I do the same, because I’ve never seen anyone so at home in Luke’s penthouse. Also, my employer doesn’t seem troubled by this adorable man waltzing about, so I don’t feel any stirrings of alarm either.
“Why, hello,” the man says to me.
“Go away, Theo,” says Luke, not bothering to look up from his data reports.
Theo pulls out a barstool, slumps himself down into it, and winks at me. “Who is your friend, Luke?”
“She’s not. She’s my meal-prep chef?—”
“We’re not friends?” I interrupt, jumping on the chance, though part of me recognizes an irritating sensation felt in a faraway distance over the fact that his first instinct is to categorize me as my job, and not anything else.
Luke drops his report. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m devastated,” I say, continuing with my flat-eyed stare. “Truly.Especially since we’ve been sharing our mornings for a while.” Looking at Theo, I whisper, “I’m paid to be here.”
He gasps.
“She’s not paid in that way,” Luke snaps.
Theo shakes his finger at him. “Sex work is real work, and it’s time we treat it that way. If we lived in a world that didn’t criminalize it, sex workers could better protect themselves. Make it safe?—”
“—and protected,” I finish off.
