Wallbanger(111)
How did he know? How could he tel ? I flipped and kneaded the dough—a fluffy, clingy brioche—feeling my face flame. I thought I’d played it
pretty wel . I chanced a look up at him as he licked the chocolate from his finger, his eyes growing more concerned as my thoughtful kneading
turned into punching. I took my frustration out on the brioche dough as I pondered an O-less life. Dammit.
His finger now clean, he brushed a lock of hair behind my ear as I continued to punch/knead and flip. I winced when he touched me, the
glorious image of him perched on top of me impossible to ignore.
“We gonna talk about this?” he asked quietly, dipping his nose to my neck. I leaned into his body for a scant second, then caught myself.
“What is there to talk about? I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Are you delirious from the time change?” I said cheerily, avoiding his
eyes as I wondered if I could pul this off. Could I convince him he was crazy one? God damnit, how did he know?
“Nightie Girl, come on. Talk to me,” he prodded, nuzzling into my neck. “If we’re gonna do this, we need to talk to each other.”
Talk? Sure, I could talk. He should probably know what he was in for with me, doomed to wander the planet without an O for the rest of my life. I
picked up the dough one more time and threw it against the wal . It dripped and rol ed down, sticky like those creepy crawly things I used to play with
as a kid. I whirled to face him, my face stil red but beyond caring now.
“What was that going to be?” he asked calmly, nodding to the dough.
“Brioche. It was going to be brioche,” I answered quickly, my tone frantic.
“I bet it would have been good.”
“It’s a lot of work—almost too much.”
“We could try it again. I’d be glad to help.”
“You don’t know what you’re offering. Do you have any idea how complicated it is? How many steps there are? How long it might take?”
“Good things come to those who wait.”
“Christ, Simon, you have no idea. I want this so badly, probably even more than you.”
“They make croutons out of it, right?”
“Wait, what? What the hel are you talking about?”
“Brioche. It’s like, some kind of bread, isn’t it? Hey, quit banging your head against the counter.”
The granite felt cool against my defeated, hot skin, but I banged with less force when I heard the edge of panic in his voice.
He knew, and he was stil here. He was here in my kitchen in that blue North Face pul over that made his eyes smoky sapphires and his entire
body look cuddly and warm and sexy and virile and kick-me-the-in-head gorgeous. And here I was, covered in honey and raisins, banging my head
on the countertop after kil ing my brioche.
Kil ing my brioche. What a great name for a— focus, Caroline!
Heart had damn near leapt out of my chest when she saw him at the door. LC was close behind, involuntarily clenching at the sight of him.
Brain had shut down in shock and denial for a moment, but was now analyzing the situation and leaning toward pronouncing him a worthy
candidate, noting the time and distance he’d committed to discovering the cause of concern. Backbone straightened now, knowing innately that
proper posture created a better-looking rack—could you blame her? Nerves…fluttered.
Why. Why. He wants to know why. I examined him between bangs…ahem…and saw he was getting concerned. As was I—my head was real y
starting to hurt. I was tired, overwhelmed, and underorgasmed. And a touch slaphappy?
After one last bang, I straightened up, then listed a little left. I caught my balance, drew in a breath, and let fly.
“You want to know why?”
“I’d like to. Are you done banging?”
“God bless it, no more banging. Okay, why. Why? Here goes…” I paced in a tight circle, dodging the chocolate chips and pecans that had
congregated close to the counter on the floor. I spied Clive in the corner, batting a few walnuts back and forth between his paws. Nuts al over the
floor, nuts in my head. Fitting. “Know anything about pizza parlors, Simon?”
To his great credit, he listened. He listened as I went on and on, circling the kitchen island as I ranted and raged. I could barely make sense of
it myself: “Weinstein…one night…machine gun…It went away!…night off…Jordan Catalano…Not even Clooney!…hiatus…Oprah…lonely…
single…Not even Clooney!…Jason Bourne…almost Clooney…Pink nightie…banging…”
After a while he looked as dizzy I was beginning to feel. But I was determined to get it al out. He tried to grab me on one pass around, but I