Chapter 17 Freddie
Freddie
So being covered in cake mix is a look. Not one of my finest moments. On the bright side, Shaun certainly got an eyeful out of it.
Any lingering suspicions I had, that that boy isn’t into men, have been obliterated.
I’ve had subtler eye-fucking by drunk bears at Sabre on a Saturday night.
And fuck me, if Shaun isn’t getting sexier by the day!
I’ve never been jealous of a sack of flour until I watched him manhandle one like it weighed as much as a feather pillow.
Wish he’d toss me around like that. And that shy little smile he wears when he’s showing me how to bake, like butter wouldn’t melt.
Oh man, the things I would do to him.
I thought I screwed up again when he ran out of the kitchen like that—yes, I was pushing the line a little further than I meant to—but clearly the sight of me covered in brownie mix was so much of a turn on that he forgot all about it.
It was probably cruel to strip off in front of him; he was practically drooling when I cleaned the batter off my chest. Probably would have licked it off himself if I’d asked him—and he had the cheek to tell me not to flirt! The dirty perv.
By the time I’ve smoothed a layer of frosting on top of the cake, I’ve decided to screw professionalism and resume actively trying to seduce Shaun.
Restraint just isn’t for me, although I gave it a good shot—two whole days of reining back the charm!
I must be growing up. Besides, I’ve got Rory back in my good books so I can afford to take a little more risk.
I step back to admire my work. The cake looks rad, or at least, as good as I’m gonna get it. I can see why Shaun likes this baking malarky. When rogue appliances aren’t actively trying to kill you, it’s pretty fun!
I put down the spatula in time to stifle the mother of all yawns.
Bloody hell, I’m knackered. My head feels heavy and my eyes are as dry as a pair of badger arseholes.
Still, I can’t bring myself to drink the coffee Shaun made me.
It’s way too bitter. Luckily, I had my back turned when I took a sip so I could hide the revulsion on my face.
I wish he wasn’t so bloody nice or I wouldn’t feel so bad about not drinking it.
Guess I’ll have to tell him the truth at some point.
Maybe after I’ve passed my probation, or once he finally admits he has the hots for me. Whichever comes first.
Gingerly, I slide a pair of spatulas under the cake and lift it onto a tray. Then, picking it up like it’s made of glass, I carry the cake out of the kitchen.
Shaun’s making drinks already. He’s working at a hundred miles an hour, though there isn’t a queue. In fact, there’s only one table occupied—a young couple sitting by the window.
“What’s the hurry?” I ask, delicately placing my creation front and centre in the display fridge.
“Huh?” says Shaun as he pushes buttons with one hand and pumps caramel syrup into a mug with the other. “Oh. No hurry. Just, er, full of energy this morning!”
Shaun proceeds to pump the syrup a little too hard, shooting a jet of caramel straight past the rim of the cup and onto his crotch. He curses under his breath.
Wow. Didn’t think I’d gotten him this flustered.
Trying not to stare, I let him wipe the worst of the syrup away before gesturing to the chocolate cake.
“Ta-daa!” I sing, making jazz hands for effect.
Shaun looks confused for a moment, like I’ve made a joke he doesn’t get. When the penny drops, his gaze lingers on the cake for a split-second before flicking to the floor. “Oh! Sorry. Good job.”
His attention goes back to his coffees.
Well, that certainly wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. It’s like his mood has done another one-eighty in the last few minutes.
Shaun steams some oat milk and tops up one of the cups with it. He’s about to pick them up when I hold up my hand.
“I can take them to the table, if you like? You might want to,” I gesticulate towards his syrupy crotch, “clean yourself up?”
Shaun looks mortified, but nods and steps aside. His skin has gone a funny shade of grey. What’s got him so spooked? I hope it's not me.
I take the drinks—an oat milk triple-shot caramel flat white and a coconut matcha latte—and stroll over to the table, curious to discover what kind of freaks would order these monstrosities.
The couple at the table are macking away on each other like they’re practicing CPR, their lips making loud sucking sounds.
Even sitting down, I can tell the guy is tall and built like a gladiator.
I can’t help but check him out as I approach.
He’s wearing a beanie and a khaki T-shirt which does nothing to hide his powerful frame.
The woman’s face is hidden behind a curtain of auburn hair, but she has a glamorous, confident aura about her.
Both of them have matching biker jackets slung over the backs of their chairs and I notice a pair of motorbike helmets stashed under the table.
Neither of them look up as I arrive. It feels weird to interrupt. Should I do another lap and come back? Surely they’ll have to come up for air eventually.
“Hi folks,” I say, once it’s apparent they both have the lung capacity of deep-sea divers. “Who’s having the flat white?”
There’s a wet popping sound as the two lovebirds finally stop sucking face and look up at me.
I almost drop their drinks.
Though I’ve never met either of them before, I recognise these two straight away—pictures from their Instagram feeds are branded into my brain.
This is Lara, Shaun’s ex, and Viggo, her himbo of a boyfriend.
Larabanana and Bigvig, in the flesh. No wonder Shaun looked greyer than slush on the pavement. What the hell are they doing here?
Lara wafts a hand in the air. “That’s mine.”
I try not to gawp as I slide the flat white towards her.
“Okay, uh, so this must be yours!”
I place Bigvig’s mug of hot, grassy milk down on the table. He doesn’t even acknowledge me; he’s too busy gazing-slash-drooling at Lara, a task I figure is using up all the RAM in his brain to the point where a simple “thank you” is apparently too much to ask.
“Can I get you two anything else?” I say, pre-emptively backing away.
“You’re not Kyle,” says Lara, stating the obvious.
“No,” I confirm, “though I am wearing his clothes.”
Lara smiles, her eyes wandering over my borrowed T-shirt. She makes a bridge with her fingers and places them under her chin.
“You’re new,” she says.
Absolute Sherlock, this one.
“Correct. I’m Freddie. Are you guys regulars?” I bluff, feigning curiosity.
Lara shakes her head. “Shaun and I have some history. I’m Lara.”
She says her own name like she’s Taylor Swift, so of course I keep my face as blank as possible. Lara frowns and cocks her head. “Shauny hasn’t mentioned me?”
The repeated use of Shaun’s name seems to have snapped Bigvig out of his trance. He takes Lara’s hand in his and looks up at me expectantly.
I give them both an awkward smile. “Nope, can’t say he has. Sorry.”
A smug smile spreads over Bigvig’s face, but there’s no hiding the flash of disappointment in Lara’s eyes.
I clap my hands together. “Alright guys, if there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you to it—”
Bigvig holds up a hand to stop me escaping.
“Hang on,” his accent is a drawling American, “would you ask Shaun where he sources his matcha powder?”
I frown. “You mean where does he buy it?”
He laughs condescendingly. “No, like, where does he source it from? Which country? Because you know if this matcha isn’t from the Uji region in Japan, then he’s selling a substandard product.”
My knobhead radar is never wrong.
“I’ll find that out for you, but I’m sure it’s delicious.” I give a tight smile. “Anything to eat for you guys?”
“Man, it’s not about it being delicious.” Bigvig explains, ignoring my question. “It’s about respecting tradition. If you—,” he points a finger at me, “ordered a matcha, you’d want to know it was legit, right?”
“Um,” I shrug. How much can I get away with here? “Honestly pal, I’m the wrong person to ask. Kinda tastes like grass to me. But I’ll double check it’s not lawn trimmings from Shaun’s garden and get right back to you.”
Lara giggles, trying and failing to hide it with her coffee cup. Bigvig seems to have glitched, giving me the moment I need to escape. As I walk away, I catch him telling Lara he “doesn’t like my attitude.”
The feeling’s mutual.
I find Shaun squatting behind the counter, rearranging the cupboards and definitely not hiding from his ex.
“Everything okay?” he asks, as nonchalantly as a surgeon about to tell their patient that they’ve amputated the wrong limb.
“All fine,” I say. “Though the guy wants to know where you source your matcha powder.”
Shaun blinks. “As in, which shop?”
“Nah. Anything that hasn’t come from a specific place in Japan is dog shit, apparently.”
Shaun scoffs. “All matcha is from Japan. Did he specify where?”
“Yes, and I immediately forgot.” We share a smirk. “I can tell him it’s from Costco if you want? Although it might trigger him to death.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
I snicker as Shaun gets to his feet and picks up the little pot of matcha from its place atop the coffee machine. He studies the label.
“Made in… Kagoshima, Japan. If that’s not good enough, he can take it up with .”
“Right,” I give him a little salute. “I’ll go break the news.”
“No, I’ll do it,” Shaun says, begrudgingly. “I know them—uh, I mean, I’ve served people like them before. Thanks, Freddie. Oh, and your cake looks perfect, by the way.”
As Shaun heads over to the table, I watch his butt as he walks away and can’t help but mutter “ditto” under my breath.