Page 97 of Cakes for the Grump
In retrospect, having such spectacular wine on an empty stomach makes one loose-limbed and very vocally open. A risky combination when trying to maintain professionalism with your fake fiancé.
“Did you ever think we would end up here?” I ask, soft-toned.
“Not in my dreams.”
“You don’t dream of me?”
Luke resumes whisking. “No. That specific scenario hasn’t come up yet.”
The way he has answered is strange enough for me to ask. “Do you…dream of me, otherwise?”
“I have.”
“More than once?”
“More than once.”
“I must be yelling at you,” I decide. “Or ordering you to eat cakes or spilling all your smoothies down the toilet.”
“It’s—” It’s either the wine going to my ears, or his voice has gone husky. “Not quite like that either.”
The salad dressing is complete. Very efficiently, Luke folds it over some greens. And then he comes over and serves me a portion. A napkin is laid out on my lap.
“Thank you,” I whisper to him.
“Anything for you, darling.”
Verity puts the cooking partners back to work immediately on the main course, saying that once they are done that, couples can enjoy the finished meal together.
I consume a bit more wine, but stop drinking after the first hiccup. It takes concentration to stop another from coming. To distract myself, I observe the other couples again. The elderly woman has meandered her way into their cooking station. She kisses her partner’s shoulder as he starts preparing pasta dough. The other couple is communicating via sign language. Their giggles make me sigh. Everyone here is genuinely in love, and it’s this feeling Luke has brought us here to emulate. We need to pretend to be falling for each other.Thatrequires practice.
Standing up, I go lean on the countertop separating Luke and I. “You’re really good at following instructions. I can tell. Does that come naturally to you?”
Yes. Apparently, interview questions = flirting.
His hands work the shaggy dough. “I graduated from Harvard with honors.”
“Harvard,” I repeat. “Oh my, I’m surprised that hasn’t been dropped in a conversation before.”
Deciding I want to be closer, I go around the counter and stand by him. “The more you knead the dough, the more gluten is developed. How long have you been at it?”
Luke flicks a bit of flour at me. “Darling, you are supposed to relax and trust me to make this meal for us.”
“Or compliment him,” yells Verity from somewhere else in the room.
Luke snorts.
What noise was that? Does he think me not capable? I reach over and pat his bicep. “You are kneading that dough real good.” Then I pat his back. “Well done.” Then I pat his two shoulders. “My strong man.”
Luke walks away from me and washes his hands in the sink. I’m about to wonder why when he comes back, lifts me up by the waist and sets me on the counter.
Eeep. Stand down, libido!
“You are distracting,” he says by way of explanation.
I’m distracting? He’s distracting. Especially now, watching him focus on making the sauce while his pasta dough rests. Onions and garlic are diced with slow but proper knife skills. His free hand is curled into a claw to protect his fingers. The blade moves in a rocking tip-to-heel motion. I’m amazed. “You really could be a good cook, if you wanted to.”
“I’m liking it, even conceptually, a lot.”
