13. Dustin
Dustin
When I invited Brooke over to the apartment, I was kind of hoping for a repeat of our last tryst. But seeing her so excited about the kitchen has all horny thoughts safely tucked in the recesses of my mind. Mostly.
Watching her flit around the kitchen and inspect the range, I can't help but smile at how in-her-element she is. She's one of the most competent people I've ever met, which is what initially attracted me to her all those years ago. She was fearless. Intelligent. Drop-dead gorgeous. I should have known it was her in that silly tourist shop—who else would have the balls to pick a fight with a stranger?
That's Brooke. That's Brooke all over.
My phone rings on the coffee table. Alicia's name scrolls across the screen, and I instinctively answer, waving Brooke over.
"Is this my sister or a little monster?" I tap the speaker phone option, not wanting to exclude Brooke .
"Could be both." Alicia sighs into the phone. "Sorry about earlier; Orion stole my phone from the charger, and I found him holed up in the bathroom watching YouTube."
"YouTube? At age four?"
"Don't judge me, Dusty! Sometimes, he just needs some bright colors and exciting sounds, and I need a break."
"Point taken, my apologies. Oh, Brooke is here."
"Hi," Brooke mumbles dumbstruck.
"Oh, shit. Hey, girl. Been a while, huh?" I can practically hear the grin in my sister's voice. "Dusty working you to the bone?"
"Something like that." Brooke's face is about as red as a tomato. Or as red as the lacy bra I caught a peek of the other night at Janine's.
"I've heard."
The awkward silence is only broken by my exasperated sigh.
"So… I'm gonna let you go. Talk later?" I groan towards the phone.
"You better believe it, bud. Don't forget a keychain or something for Orion, okay?" Alicia snickers. "Bye, Brooke."
Brooke squeaks out something inaudible. Jesus, she's adorable when she blushes this hard. She perches on the arm of the sofa like she's afraid Alicia will manifest out of my phone and tackle her. Honestly, if it were physically possible, she might. Alicia is like a bloodhound for drama, and this whole …everything… we've got going on is like crack for her.
"Does she hate me?" Brooke whispers.
"What? No. She might hate me if I don't tell her every single detail of our sordid affair. I mean, minus the sex. She would probably puke on my shoes or something. But… I'm babbling. Sorry. No, my sister doesn't hate you." I shake my head vehemently.
Brooke fidgets with a hangnail on her thumb. "What are we doing here, Dustin?"
My heart drops into my shoes, and I swear a cold sweat breaks out over my body. That's not supposed to happen. This is supposed to be a fun fling, just two old friends relieving tension. It should be clear. Uncomplicated. But everything about what I feel right now is incredibly complicated. "Uh."
"I'm… sorry. I know we're having fun, right? No strings and all that. Just… hearing from Alicia really took me back." She averts her gaze, staring at the floor.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask, then cringe. What a stupid thing to ask. I might as well have said nothing at all.
Brooke sighs and still won't look at me. Feeling brave—or maybe even more stupid—I reach out and cup my hand around her cheek, pulling her gaze to me. "Hey. I'm sorry to have sprung that on you. I didn't want to exclude you from the conversation because that would be rude. We don't have to figure anything out tonight—besides how you're going to get all of your baking supplies from Brooklyn to Manhattan this weekend."
"There's nothing to figure out." Brooke looks at me with finality. "Forget what I said. That was a momentary lapse in sanity."
I flatten my lips and nod. A knot is growing in my stomach, though, and I don't like it one bit.
She avoids me for the rest of the work week but confirms via text that we're still on for baking at my place today. She texted about thirty minutes ago that she was on her way, and I keep checking the MTA app to make sure her train is really on the way. I can't stop thinking about our conversation, or maybe it's better to refer to it as a non-conversation.
What are we doing here, Dustin?
I know what I want to tell her. I want to hoist her over my shoulder and take her back to Chicago. I want to shower her with affection every day. I want to wake up to her beautiful face every morning. I want to help her re-dye her hair whenever she needs touch-ups. I want to make a spreadsheet about how often we need to re-dye her hair and set up the exact brand she likes on auto-buy.
That is to say, I'm handling this tryst with all the grace and maturity and emotional distance a man my age should. Not.
Alicia knows that Brooke is on her way and texted me a few encouraging gifs. I think Orion did, too, but I can't be sure. It's the thought that counts, right?
Brooke
Can you please tell your doorman to let me in?
"Oh, shit." I step into my canvas slip-ons and make a break for the elevator. I impatiently tap my foot as the numbers above the door count down to the ground floor, only to find Brooke with a very irritable look on her face and my apologetic doorman.
"Hi, hi, sorry about that," I pant breathlessly.
"I couldn't remember the apartment number," Brooke states flatly.
"My apologies, sir. It's policy, you understand?" The doorman smiles at us.
"Sure, sure. Thanks. Here, can I take some of those bags?" Not waiting for an answer, I grab the handles of three of her reusable shopping bags and lead her back to the elevator .
She huffs out irritated breaths as we ascend, but she still doesn't fuckin' look at me. That's going to make this whole activity very difficult. Unsure of how to proceed, I just follow her lead as we enter the apartment and put the bags on the counter. She unpacks everything with military efficiency and punches 350 into the oven to preheat.
I cringe. I could have done that. I should have done that. I should be making her life easier.
"Are you okay?" I may not understand every single social cue, but her annoyance is palpable.
"Yeah, Dustin. I'm fine." She huffs out a long breath. "No, I'm not. My ex-husband texted me from another number this morning to ask about the fucking baseball cards."
"How many phones does this guy have?" I muse.
"Probably spoofed or a temporary number. I don't know. Why won't he leave me alone?" She sets down a muffin tin a bit harder than necessary. The metal clangs against the marble countertop, and I cringe involuntarily.
Calling on that same bravery I had the last time she was here, I wrap my arms around her shoulders and pull her in close. She stiffens for a split-second but melts into my grip when I don't let go. My heart melts along with her. She doesn't deserve this kind of harassment. From what I can tell, he's just doing this to mess with her. No one messes with my girl.
Wait, my girl? Shit .
"Your heart is beating really fast," she mumbles into my shirt.
"Uh, sorry," I stammer. "I was just thinking."
"Well!" She announces and steps back. "You best start thinking about baking. Welcome to baking boot camp, Dustin."
"Uh-oh."
Early aughts pop blares from the wireless speaker Brooke brought along. Goopy cake mix and powdered sugar are everywhere . I keep trying to wipe it up, but my drill sergeant keeps snapping a twisted-up tea towel at me.
"Later! Clean-up comes later, okay? There's no use in cleaning now—it'll all just get dirty again." She points a finger at me authoritatively, and I raise my hands in defeat.
"Yes, ma'am." I sneakily wipe a glob of cake batter from my shirt. A tiny act of rebellion.
"The next batch comes out of the oven in—" She checks her phone. "—five minutes. Check the middle row with a fork and make sure it's truly set."
"I know, I know." Somehow, I thought baking with Brooke would be more sexy than this. I imagined licking icing from her neck and teasing each other with whisks. Instead, I'm sweating more in the kitchen than I have in any gym. I'd say I'm disappointed, but I'm not. She's a force of nature. I lov— like it. I like it. A lot.
"This bag is empty—can you swap out the tip?" She points to the full piping bag on the counter she already prepped, and hands me the empty bag.
I can do this. Sure, I messed it up the last time, but that was just practice. With careful precision, I follow the steps she laid out clearly. I only curse under my breath a few times—which is an improvement—and hand her the most perfect piping bag of frosting I've ever seen, if I do say so myself.
"Better." She nods approvingly, and my chest fills with pride.
Within moments, every single one of the bare chocolate cupcakes is frosted with a perfect pink swirl—reminiscent of a rose but not exactly. I watch intently as she sprinkles silver pearlescent powder of some sort on each cupcake. The silver compliments the dusty pink perfectly. It looks classy and elegant, which isn't something I would normally associate with cupcakes. Brooke really has an eye for this sort of thing.
Bee-bee-bee-beep. Bee-bee-bee-beep.
Her phone's alarm rings out and I jump into action. I test the middle row with my fork, and it comes out clean. Next, I remove the tray, efficiently replacing it with the next tin. Brooke taps her phone again, resetting the timer .
"How'd I do, boss?" I ask.
"Very good." She nods again.
There's not much to do until the batch is cool enough for frosting, so I sit on a bar stool and try not to wipe up the counters. Every single speck of powder or goop taunts me, and I have to sit on my hands. This is her show; I'm just the assistant. But god dammit, I want to fucking clean up this mess.
"Do you think you'll be able to help me deliver these tomorrow?" Brooke asks, scrolling through her phone. "It's up north in Inwood, by the Cloisters."
"Sure," I automatically reply. I've never heard of Inwood, but the Cloisters pique my interest. Medieval architecture and art? I could spend hours there. "Can we… visit the Cloisters after the delivery?"
She looks up from her phone and grins. "Yeah, absolutely. It's a date."
It's a date.
Those three words echo in my mind long after we finished baking. All of the cupcakes are boxed up and ready to go, sitting in my fridge. Brooke flopped onto the couch about twenty minutes ago. Her eyes just wouldn't stay open any longer. I admire the peaceful expression she has while she sleeps, then stop myself.
That is undeniably creepy of me. I can't watch her sleep—what's wrong with me? I should just get on my phone, check my email… maybe text my sister. Something. Anything besides watch Brooke sleep.
It's a date.
What are we doing here, Dustin?
It's a date.
I know what I want to be doing here. I want to sweep her off her feet and threaten her ex-husband so he'll never bother her again. I want to do all the sappy stuff in romance novels. I want to be the Gomez to her Morticia. The Jake to her Amy. The Chidi to her Eleanor. The Ben to her Leslie.
But there's so much that could go wrong. We'd have to declare our relationship to HR, of course. And once that's on paper, it would be horrendously mortifying if anything were to happen. Then we'd have to professionally declare a breakup, and the very concept of that makes my stomach turn.
And what if she doesn't want this? What if she's happy to just wave goodbye when I leave? What if we drift back apart and we don't see each other again?
I straighten my spine and shake myself. No. That can't happen. I can make this work— we can make this work. I know we can. I believe in us .
"Yours, forever," I whisper to her sleeping form. Maybe it's just my imagination, but I swear she smiles.