Page 92 of Cakes for the Grump
The best thing to do is to view all this from a professional lens, Rita.You’re the chef. He’s the millionaire who needs your assistance. Forget today. Forget the past. Focus on the future. How do both Luke and I reach our goals? How can I help him fully, too?
“Mr. Duncan said you have a better chance with me by your side,” I say to the ceiling.
“He did.”
“As your friend—or something.”
“Something.”Luke’s voice drops. “In his wildest dreams, he wants us to be fake-engaged.”
“The credible family man, Luke Abbot.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
In the dark, the sounds of our breaths echo. He seems to now be holding his.
I try to keep my voice casual. “If the video of you fighting gets out there, you are going to need more help than a friend. A person is judged by their friends, but they are judged even more by the partners they choose. I… Shouldn’t I be your pretend fiancée?”
I’m only suggesting it because it will strengthen his cause, I tell myself. It’s a professional improvement for his cause.
“Will you be able to sell it?” asks Luke. “To stomach being tied to me, even if we are pretending? After you’ve heard everything I’ve told you today? After you’ve seen me—” He lifts his battered knuckles and holds them up.
Yes. I can more than stomach it. The answer is a gong in my head. Clear as daylight.
“We’ll have to practice,” I say.
“Practice?”
“To make it look real. And there’s not a lot of time left so?—”
“We’ll practice tomorrow.”
I try explaining, lest he thinks I want to spend more time together with him for other reasons. “People will need to think we’re in love, you know? It will come off way worse if they assume your fiancée secretly hates you. I’ll have to put on a good show.”
“In business, we run mock scenarios,” Luke says. “We could do those.”
“I think so too. So tomorrow when we wake up, we’re going to be engaged. If we don’t treat it like it’s real?—”
“Then we won’t get comfortable around each other.”
We’re soldiers talking about a game plan. That’s it. Any squirming in the bed is because I’m trying to get settled in. My thigh accidentally brushes against his. Luke whips his body away, jerking himself to face the wall, giving me his back. I guess it’s time to sleep. There is no looking at each other. All I get is his giant shoulders, the nape of his neck, and the blonde strands of his hair.
My hand lifts up. It wants to trail a line down his back. To feel the warmth and strength my eyes are telling me he possesses.
I don’t.
I shut my eyes and sleep.
Before we drift off, I hear Luke say, “Thank you.”
I whisper back, “Thank you. For saving me today.”
TWENTY-FOUR
When I wake up alone,I palm (grope) the spot beside me. There are dozens of reasons for this new behavior or so, I tell myself. Luke’s bed is bigger, so there is more room to stretch out. My muscles are tense from the stress of last night, so I am trying to ease those pains. There’s also the fact that I haven’t slept next to anyone for a while, so I’m taking a few minutes to adjust.
But if I’m being honest with myself—which Itryto be—there’s a real reason for what I’m doing. I’m touching his side of the bed to feel if it’s still warm, and to absorb that warmth as a pale substitute for the real thing.
Does this mean I have been concussed, possibly by association? What else can explain why I’ve become a desperate little heat-seeking salamander?
