Page 42 of Cakes for the Grump
“He’s a dentist.”
“Excellent. He knows his way around a drill and sleeping gas.”
“Hey!” I attempt a sideway jab he easily avoids. “Don’t put murderery thoughts in my head! I don’t want to be weird on the date.”
“I see. So you are going on it. The date.”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t—it’s not any of your business!”
This conversation is peak pointless and irritating. What’s his preoccupation with how I spend my time? God forbid, a small amount of it is not monopolized by making him cakes or smoothies or whatever other meal prep is scheduled. It’s not like I’m restraining his movements or wondering what he’s up to when we aren’t together.
But maybe I should, for equality purposes, interrogate too. Not because I’m curious or invested in finding out. “How about you and the woman in the bar?”
“Sophie. And what about her?”
“Why aren’t you walking her home? Or walking her to your home? It feels like a missed opportunity. Not that I understand why, but she was into you.”
“Most women are.”
I decide the best response to this is to double over and laugh. So, I do.
“That’s unnecessarily rude, Rita.”
The plan was to have a bit of a laugh, but it seems I can’t stop now that I’ve started. It’s the release of tension I’ve been needing. Delirious, joyous, and like trapped birds are leaving my chest. Screw good sex. This is loads better.
Luke moves, stalking past me.
There are tears in my eyes, so when I straighten and walk behind him, I don’t see the uneven crack in the pavement.
“Erk.”
My feet stumble, and there is an attempt to regain balance, but it fails.My hair flies back as I trip forward. Arms brace for impact but it’s not the ground they hit.
Hands around my waist secure me back in place.
“Careful,” he reprimands gruffly.
I sniff, using the edge of my palm to wipe away my eyes. “I’m good.”
“Are you? You almost smacked your face.”
“But I didn’t.”
I glare up at his face—which ismuchcloser than it’s ever been before. There are darker gray flecks in his slate-blue eyes and a freckle above the cupid bow of his lips. An innocent embellishment on an otherwise serious and masculine face.
The stare-down goes on and on, and if there is an acceptable time limit for adversaries to maintain prolonged eye contact, I’m afraid we’ve gone past it. I’m getting sucked into his wonderful orbit, a place I don’t want to be. Not when the heat and intensity of his touch starts a low-pitched fire frustratingly asking me to feed it with more of him.
Anxiously, I chew the edge of her lip.
Bad call, now that he’s looking at my mouth.
I suck in a breath, wondering crazily if it’s a shape he appreciates.
His fingers jerk against my hips.
It’s like…
Almost if…
