Chapter 18 #2
“Part of the job,” he answered flatly, putting the recipe card back on the counter. “Slowly add the confectioners’ sugar into the mixer.” His hand pressed against the small of my back, like it was nudging me to try. My breath caught. “Slowly.”
Gliding gradually, his hand moved along my back until his fingers gently tapped around my waist. With the other hand, he took
the bowl of confectioners’ sugar and put a small measuring cup in it.
“I . . .” I stammered. I tried to focus, but his palm sent a slow ember moving up my spine, only intensified by the fact that
his body still loomed around mine. “I . . . cut people open for a living. I can handle a pastry.”
He took a step back. Trying to regain control after that, I dumped a cup of confectioners’ sugar into the mixer.
“Slowly,” he repeated, his voice rising slightly.
But it was too late—with a quick flip of a switch, the mixer went on at full speed and the confectioners’ sugar became airborne.
I closed my eyes for a second when all the sugar slapped against us in a cloud of white. He pressed forward as he reached
over me to turn off the mixer, his body crowding mine in the most unexpectedly delightful way.
I opened my eyes and glanced up at him from over my shoulder.
“Doesn’t take instruction well,” Austin noted calmly, his face covered in sugar. It sat along his eyebrows and lashes like
freshly fallen snow. “Interesting.”
“I’m sorry,” I sputtered, then pressed my lips together as I tried not to laugh. Without thinking, I ran a finger along his
cheek. I licked the pad of it. The powdery sugar dissolved on my tongue.
His jaw flexed, and then he took a quick step to the side and grabbed a couple towels off the handle on the oven.
“You know,” he whispered next to me, wiping his face with the towel and attempting to tidy up our workspace. “You’re going
to need to decide what you want from him.”
“What do mean?”
“Making him jealous is one thing, but if you want him back—”
“I don’t.” I stood up straighter, a little indignant that he kept doubting my intentions.
Maybe I still wanted some sort of an apology or admission of guilt or something, so I didn’t feel so dumb. Because my head got tossed and turned for the last few weeks like a seashell tumbling in a wave
toward the shore. And he just got to be happy? Making him miserable didn’t have the same high I’d thought it would, but that didn’t mean he didn’t deserve it a little. “Honestly, I think his reaction during the party was enough. I don’t want anything more from him now.”
Austin’s cheek twitched. “Understood.”
“But we’re not coming clean,” I added quickly. Being an adult and realizing that vengeance was hollow was one thing. Telling
Blake I’d made a deal with Austin to come here and piss him off, that was never going to happen. “We’re in too deep.”
Austin chuckled; his voice lowered. “I’ll take the truth of this fake relationship to my grave.”
“Good.” My shoulders relaxed, and I did what I always did when things started going in the direction I needed them to. I went
through my mental checklist of what to do next. And thanking Austin for being an effective distraction for Malcolm was one
of them since that was never really part of the deal.
“So, all that’s left now is to make some money for the foundation and continue to be a shiny object to distract Malcolm,” I whispered. “Thanks for wrangling him, by the way.”
“It’s not so bad.” Austin looked over to Malcolm, who was fidgeting with an empty mixer a few feet from us. Austin shrugged
with a half smile. “He’s actually a fan.”
My ego was basically in pieces, and he was spending this week just short of signing autographs. I tried to think of something
bantery to quip back, when I stopped and realized he’d completed the entire recipe. Start to finish. And was preparing to
put it all together. All I’d managed to do so far was eat an entire demi baguette and half of a round of creamy Camembert.
“Are you good at this?”
“Try to sound less surprised.” He spun the pastry bag until it sat taut. “Zoya, my goddaughter’s mom, is a chef. She has a
demonstration kitchen and sort of forces it on everyone.”
He put the bag on the counter and maneuvered around me, laying a gentle hand along the small of my back again. Austin grabbed
an offset spatula from the other side and now I was fully sandwiched between his arms as he worked.
“Lucky . . .” I tried to think of something other than how distracting it was to be surrounded by him.
His chest brushed against my back as he spun another pastry bag closed.
The piney, musky scent from his cologne cut through the sugary smell in the room.
My stomach dipped. “I have takeout most nights. I order from this Thai place Selena loves.” Heat flooded my face despite my brain reminding me that he was simply putting on a good show, and my idiot body was falling for it.
“It’s . . . it’s ummm . . .” I stammered, trying to think of anything other than how delightful his body felt pressed against me when he was wholly interested in the task at hand.
“It’s probably some of the best food I’ve had in the city.
But still, a best friend chef is unbelievably lucky. ”
Four years of medical school, several more years of postgraduate training, and yet I sounded like an imbecile who just announced
a stream of unintelligible consciousness.
Austin either didn’t notice or pretended not to. “Except when she suggests I auction myself off.”
I looked around and blew out a sigh. We were both getting what we needed. “I’d say it worked out.”
“And, as it turns out, Malcolm is pretty interested in the foundation, too.”
“Yeah?” I smiled, feeling lighter. “Look at you,” I teased, and smacked his shoulder with the back of my hand playfully. “Marketing
yourself.”
“It’s for the children,” he answered dryly through a wide smile that played tug-of-war along his cheeks. He took a step back
and pointed to a baked macaron half, silently instructing me to help by removing them from the sheet so he could assemble.
“That’s really great,” I thought out loud. I started picking up macaron halves. I wasn’t as easily swooned at the mention
of children as other people, but from Austin . . .
Maybe it was sort of cute.
“Right now, it’s just a place where kids can go to keep them out of trouble and play a sport. But it’s more than I had growing
up.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I was a foster kid and sort of got lost in the system. Till I met Theo and the Mistrys sort of took me in as their own.” The cords along his throat shifted. “Not everyone gets so lucky.”
I nodded, not sure what to say but sort of hoping he’d keep going. He was brighter when he talked about the foundation.
“When we started it, that was the original purpose,” he continued, gathering a few pastry bags. “To give kids a place to go
and maybe find something they love. But we wanted to do more, outside of the charitable arm. Eventually we wanted to find
talent and help place them in teams.”
“Like scouts?”
“Sort of—more of a training camp like they have all over the world for kids that show some promise in soccer. It would be
nice if every talented player didn’t have to go abroad for a career. If there was a way to get talent to the American league
easily, it might . . .”
He paused.
“Might . . .” I coaxed.
“Well, the dream is a long way off, but it would be nice to not go across the world to chase a dream.”
Best friends were the family you got to choose. I imagined it had to have been lonely to have an entire career an ocean away
from his version of that.
“That must’ve been hard.”
“Yeah . . .” His voice lowered.
He swirled another macaron bottom with filling—and I watched.
“How far off is that version of the future?”
“A long way since up until a few weeks ago, we could barely afford to keep the lights on in the center.” He handed me a completed macaron. I assumed it was to eat, so I took a bite. The sweet strawberry filled my senses. “The auction helped. Good thing you’ve got that little crush on me.”
My ego wanted to correct him, but the flutter between my ribs was distracting.
“I think you mean, good thing Selena has a limitless Black Card,” I corrected.
For a moment, I remembered when Selena’s way of talking about Henry had shifted to something that was laced with giddiness.
It was after some story about walking in the rain together. She’d forgotten an umbrella, and he always carried one for her.
The simple act of knowing that she might need it and coming prepared had practically wooed Selena off her feet.
I sat there, eating a delicious macaron I didn’t help make—in fact I probably hindered the process. The strawberry filling
was sweet, made sweeter because I could simply sit and be. I always wanted to make that paella, never had time, so it never
happened. Here, I wanted to make macarons, got caught up with Selena, but they were made just the same.
The giddiness I could hear in Selena’s voice that day was the same one I could feel moving through every muscle fiber in my
body.
I think my version of walking in the rain was a man who could bake.
I picked up another macaron, readying myself for the rest of this week. This time, instead of feeling alone, I was sort of
excited.