Page 47 of Love at Teamsgiving
“Looking at me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, that’s generally what humans do when they’re having a conversation.”
“No, you’re looking at me likethat.”
“Like what?”
“The same way you were looking at me on the sidewalk outside the salon.”
Her cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink, which is a nice contrast to this sterile environment.
There’s no denying our chemistry. Neither time nor distance has dulled our attraction to each other. It’s remarkable, actually.
Sure, we know which buttons to push to get under each other’s skin.
And the fire that blazes when our fingers so much as brush.
For instance, under the table, her foot makes contact with my ankle. She could kick me, but it rests there comfortably.
We know how to aggravate and irritate, but mostly we’re on our best behavior. Okay, decent behavior because we’ve been debating whether CK, this surgical theater of bakeries, is named thus because the owner removed the vowels from the wordcaketo be avant-garde, clever, or if it stands for something else.
This might go down in the books as the oddest place I’ve ever been. Having grown up on the Lower East Side, that’s saying something.
CK, also the name of the owner and baker, appears from a door that disappears into the white wall and arrays a long plate in front of us with four squares covered in white frosting.
Staring at Junie with eyes open so wide I can see the whites on all sides, he says, “To your left is the beetroot and carob, then matcha tahini twist, chili olive oil, and my personal favorite, avocado curd champagne.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I was thinking of something more traditional. Like chocolate.”
“Miguel,” Junie says through gritted teeth and without moving her lips.
“Darling,” I say, because once more we were mistaken for a couple.
However, this time Junie was quick to correct the mistake and explained to CK that we’re friends of the bride and groom-to-be.
I wish we’d played pretend. At least then I could get away with telling this guy to back off.
The last twenty minutes have been a comedy of errors and annoyance because even though we were three minutes late, CK, with his pencil neck and oddly shaped head—some men shouldn’t shave their heads and accept that they have a chrome dome—made us wait thirty.
Also, some dudes shouldn’t try to creep on my Junie. CK, also one of them.
He practically drapes himself over her while describing the merits of each flavor. His fingers brush hers when he sets out the forks. If he dares to try to feed her, these walls will no longer be white.
With a faux French accent that slips a few times, CK says, “When I measure the ingredients, I am very precise. Very considerate of the sumptuousness of the flavor profiles. It’s an exacting science that I take very seriously. When I mix the dough, I infuse it with my passion to provide a luscious experience for the lucky recipient of my creations.”
Junie leans away, reclaiming her personal space. She isn’t uncomfortable as much as she is skeeved and peeved. She’s brought down cat callers in the city, much bigger than CK. If he’s not careful, he’s going to find himself with a fork jutting out of the top of his hand. I wouldn’t put it past her.
I’d never hesitate to step in to protect Junie, but she can handle herself, and the tension in her shoulders suggests she’s contemplating the severity of the consequences if she impales this guy’s mitts.
Shane suggested a few bakeries for the wedding cake and I made appointments, the last one being at Casey’s Kakes, figuring we’d score big and get to eat some cake in the process.
However, I made an error when programming the address into my GPS, thinking the CK Bakery was the same as Casey’s Kakes Bakery. Suffice it to say, I was distracted by the woman in the passenger seat. My bad.
This realization came when CK described his “process” of reading the couple’s “aura shape, color, and texture” to come up with favorable flavors.
I’m all for sweets and treats, but his creations are just a little too avant-garde for me.
Whether it’s this strange, sterile environment, the quantity of sugar we’ve consumed, or something else like the way Junie has been looking at me all day, I feel jittery inside. My ego is big, but she’s the first person on the planet who’d deflate it and I’m certain the glances she sneaks mean something.
