34. Delilah
DELILAH
A week goes by, and I do not ask.
In my defense, I’m busy. Valentine’s Day is the Super Bowl of bakeries like mine, if that Super Bowl was also mixed with the Kentucky Derby and the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. It’s war, and a race, and you also have to look good while you’re doing it.
Or at least the cakes and cookies do.
But as of 3:45 A.M. on the morning of Valentine’s Day, I’m losing the war, I’m behind in the race, and neither I nor the heart-shaped cannolis I’m currently piping look particularly pretty.
I pause for a second to let the carpal tunnel in my hand recede. While I shake out my wrists, I look around to see how far we’ve come and how far we have left to go.
Unfortunately, the latter category is much, much bigger than the former.
We have nine hundred heart cookies to flood, four hundred of which have to say something in cursive, and my carpal tunnel isn’t getting any better.
Priya is at the mixer with two pounds of freeze-dried raspberry powder going into buttercream, which turns the whole kitchen the color of a really gory crime scene.
Cameron is running boxes and sweating profusely.
Jolene is on the phone telling a customer that no, we cannot fit a message longer than eleven characters on a three-inch heart, and that “I’M SORRY FOR EVERYTHING I DID IN JANUARY” is, generously, thirty-six.
The upside of working like a dog is I don’t have time to think about anything else.
I don’t want to think about my mom’s demand that I give a speech. Or the glistening engagement ring on Vivian’s finger.
I don’t want to think about Connor hissing, Ask him why he choose me.
And I especially, most of all, do not want to think about Kane’s sinful mouth sinking between my thighs and forever ruining that bathroom sink for me. I’ll never be able to wash my hands there again without getting a little weak in the knees.
This is mine to give and yours to receive.
That sentence is probably going to live rent-free in my head for the rest of my life.
I shudder, shake it all off, and get back to work.
A little while later, I’ve piped custom phrases on sixty-eight red velvet cakes, filled one hundred and twelve heart-shaped tart shelves, and I look up to see Kane Makov standing at my back door.
One of those things was not on the production schedule.
I unlock the door and let him inside.
“What are you doing here?” I ask in confusion.
He steps in and shuts the door behind him. He’s got no coat on over his sweater, which means he came from a car that’s parked close.
“Josef called me,” he says.
I frown. “As in Stalin? I thought he was dead.”
“The man standing guard on your back door in the mornings.” He looks past me at the kitchen, eyes passing over the trays stacked four high on every rack, Priya’s crime-scene mixer, and Cameron wobbling by with a tower of boxes hugged to his chest. “He said you looked overwhelmed. I think he might’ve undersold it. ”
“We’re fine.”
Right on cue, Cameron drops half the boxes. Frosting goes everywhere. He sinks to his knees and starts to sob.
Priya, who has been pretending to work while clearly eavesdropping on this entire conversation, rushes over to help poor Cam. She mouths to me, Ignore us! and flaps her hands to turn me back toward Kane.
Kane, obviously, sees all of that. “I don’t think you and I have the same definition of ‘fine.’“
“Okay,” I confess, cheeks reddening, “we’re a little behind. But it’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before.”
Behind Kane, Priya coughs into her hand with obvious fakeness and adds, “Please help, dear God!”
I roll my eyes. What a drama queen.
“Fine. Maybe some extra hands would be useful.”
He spreads those delectable, tattooed hands of his wide, rings glinting in the light. “Just tell me where to put them, then.”
I get a feeling in my chest that I have neither the time nor the space nor the mental-emotional bandwidth to process right now.
“Take off your rings, wash your hands, and roll up your sleeves.” I point toward the hook beside the pantry. “And put on that apron.”
Kane obeys.
He sets four dark rings beside my phone, washes his hands, and folds his cuffs back. The black ink on his forearms is revealed, inch by inch. Then he ties on a white apron printed with tiny strawberries. It’s a bit big on me, which means it’s barely enough to cover his crotch.
“That apron has never looked so good,” Priya mutters as she passes me with fresh boxes for Cameron.
“Shut it,” I side-mouth back to her. “I run a professional kitchen, goddammit.”
“Now what?” Kane interrupts from behind me.
I hand him the first stack of mixing bowls. “Sink. Soap. Scrub. Dry.”
His eyebrows rise. “Am I being hazed?”
“You’re on probation. Prove yourself worthy, and maybe you’ll get a call up to the big leagues.”
“Mopping?” he asks with a teasing shine in his eye.
I swat him with the nearest dish towel. “If you’re lucky.”
Laughing, he goes to the sink and starts to work.
And I immediately lose track of my thoughts.
Which, like, c’mon. That’s so dumb.
This should not be sexy. Dishwashing is not a sexy activity. I spent ten years asking Connor to rinse his oatmeal bowl before it hardened into construction material, so suds should inspire resentment, not horniness. Especially not at 4:00 A.M.
But…
Then Kane braces both hands against the steel basin.
His shirt tightens across his back.
His muscles flex and move.
He starts to hum to himself.
Hum! In my kitchen! In a voice that can carry a tune, no less!
For God’s sake, does this man have no shame?!
“Ahem,” I say. “We can turn on the radio, if you want music.”
He just smirks. “It’s your show, Chef. You call the shots.”
I turn and scurry off before he can throw me any further off my rhythm.
By five, the whole staff is in place. Priya handles fillings and final bake times. Angelica pipes the cakes. Jolene checks names against pickup windows and labels each box. Cameron takes the first delivery run at six thirty. I work the center table, finish the tart shells, and direct traffic.
Kane washes everything we send him.
He never asks why a bakery needs seven versions of the same spatula.
He scrapes chocolate from bowls, stacks sanitized pans, and dries sheet trays without putting one in the wrong section.
When Cameron arrives with twenty insulated bags, Kane helps him sort the route by zip code and asks me before moving a single order.
“Can the Park Slope delivery leave with the Cobble Hill group?” he asks.
I check the addresses. “Yes, but the anniversary cake needs to stay upright. It has sugar roses.”
Kane looks at Cameron. “If the roses smear, don’t bother coming back.”
Cameron stops smiling. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Heh... heh... you’re joking... right?”
Kane doesn’t smile. “Am I?”
With one more gulp, Cameron takes the bags and departs at impressive speed. He is very, very careful with the cake.
I scowl at him. “Your management style needs work.”
He just winks. “You have your methods. I have mine. But I guarantee you this: Those sugar roses will arrive perfectly intact.”
For the next four hours, we work amid butter, chocolate, hot metal, and door chimes. Kane meets each courier at the rear entrance. He counts boxes before they leave and brings the signed delivery sheets to Jolene.
He even learns our labeling system, which makes him the first man I have dated who understands that writing cake on a box containing a cake contributes nothing useful.
At two thirty, I finish a tray of petits fours and scrape excess frosting from my thumb.
Kane returns from a delivery count. I hold my hand in front of him before I can decide whether this is a good idea.
He takes my thumb into his mouth.
His tongue removes the frosting. His eyes stay on mine.
Priya chooses that moment to look up from her station with a piping bag in hand. When she sees Kane sucking my finger, she squeezes too hard. Raspberry filling shoots across the table and strikes Angelica’s apron like arterial spray.
“Equipment failure!” she announces. “Nothing to see here!”
I blush and get back to work.
By four, we enter the final pickup stretch.
Thirty-one boxes remain on the racks. Jolene calls names, Angelica verifies inscriptions, and Priya checks each refrigerated order before it reaches the counter.
I move from station to station because every paid order leaves through my front door with my name printed on it, so I want to be sure it’s right.
Kane steps behind me at the steel table while I seal a cake box.
His hands settle on either side of mine. He cages me against the edge without touching anywhere else.
“You have been giving me orders for twelve hours,” he says. “How does it feel to be the one in charge?”
“Terrifying. I can’t imagine you’re enjoying it, either.”
He nips my earlobe. “Oh, how wrong you are. I like seeing you in your element. It’s sexy.” His mouth brushes the sensitive skin behind my ear. “Think I can see you in your office for five minutes, Chef?”
Oh, God.
I want to turn around. I want to lock the front door, send my staff away, and discover whether the desk can survive the kinds of things I’d like to do on top of it.
But my bakery still has thirty-one pickups waiting on the racks.
“Rain check,” I mumble.
Kane steps away at once.
He doesn’t complain or take a final touch because he thinks I owe him one. He returns to the sink and reaches for another bowl.
I finish sealing the box.
Then I spend forty minutes thinking about his obedience.
At four fifty, we have a gap before the last few pickups. Every order is finished. Every label is verified. The staff is resetting stations while Jolene watches the front.
I take Kane by the apron tie.
“Office. Now.”
He follows.
I shut the door, grab his shirt, and kiss him before he can speak. Kane catches my hips and sets me on the desk. My knees open around him. His mouth moves down my neck while I free his shirt from his waistband.
“Five minutes,” I tell him.
“You won’t be finished in five minutes.”
“Confident for a dishwasher.”
He puts one hand under my apron and closes it around my thigh. “After dinner, I will show you confidence.”
I kiss him again. He pulls me to the edge of the desk, and the hard length of him presses between my legs. I rock against him once, then again, but he pulls away just to mess with me.
What an infuriating irony. I have spent all day telling this man where to stand. Now, I want him right here, and he won’t listen.
The front bell rings, and Jolene calls, “Pickup for Feldman!”
He kisses me once and helps me down. “Eight tonight,” he says. “I’ll collect you at home.”
“Where are we going?”
“You will choose when we arrive.”
“That’s suspiciously vague. What do I wear?”
“Wear what you want, Lilah.”
He straightens my apron, opens the office door, and slips out into the world.
At five twelve, the Feldman order leaves. At five twenty-three, two college students collect matching breakup cakes. At five forty-one, Mr. and Mrs. Alvarez take the anniversary cake with every sugar rose intact.
The final customer arrives at five fifty-eight. I check the name, open the box for approval, and watch her grin at three dozen heart-shaped cookies iced with private jokes I was paid not to understand.
She leaves at six oh-three.
I lock the front door and turn the sign to CLOSED.
Priya checks the board while Jolene closes the register. Every route is marked complete. We lost one chocolate collar, used both backup drivers, moved seven pickup windows, and sold every spare pastry through the front case. Nobody missed a paid deadline.
I authorize an extra hour for cleanup even though we could finish faster. Angelica’s shoulders are sagging. Cameron has driven from Sunset Park to Bay Ridge and back often enough to qualify for a taxi medallion. Priya has chocolate on her cheek and the thousand-yard stare of a war vet.
“Sit for ten minutes,” I tell them. “Eat anything without a customer name on it.”
I stand in the middle of my kitchen and marvel at what we accomplished.
Every order went out correctly. My staff handled the largest production day in the bakery’s history. We did it. I did it.
With just a teeny bit of help.
By seven, the kitchen is clean and everybody’s gone.
I do the last walk-through myself. Ovens off. Walk-in door latched. Case lights off, front lights off, register drawer empty.
I set the alarm and let myself out the back, where a stone-faced Bratva man I’ve never been introduced to nods at me from the end of the alley.
I nod back.
I get home at twenty to eight, which gives me twenty minutes to perform miracles on my face and hair.
Twenty minutes is not enough time, but it’s what I have, so I make it work.
I strip out of clothes that smell like butter and burnt sugar and get in the shower with the water cranked as hot as it goes.
My shoulders have knots in them the size of walnuts.
I have to wash my hair twice because the first time didn’t get the frosting out.
I don’t know where we’re going. Wear what you want, he said, which men think is easy-going and women think should be punishable by law.
I go with a dark red sweater and stockings, plus boots, because it’s February and I’m not standing on a sidewalk in heels for anybody. I dry my hair as much as I can and pin the front back.
Mascara. Lipstick. Done.
In the mirror, I look tired. But I also look like a woman who moved nine hundred cookies out that door today.
The photograph is still on my nightstand, the one from the coat closet. I look at it while I put on my earrings.
Then headlights swing across the bedroom wall, and I hear a car pull up to the curb.
I grab my coat and go down.
Holi-date #3 is about to begin.