51. Kiara
fifty-one
Kiara
P aris, two months later
Sunday, 1:00 p.m.
To: Colton
Are you up?
Incoming call: Colton
Excitement courses through my veins.
“Hiiii.”
“Hey sweets.” His voice has a pre-coffee rasp that says morning sex and lazy Sunday in. “Send me a picture. I wanna know where you’re at right now.”
I switch screens and capture the marble table where my espresso sits, with the boulevard in the background shining under the rain. I apply a filter to make it look cozy and vibrant, then hit send.
“Shit, you’re living the life,” he drawls.
I don’t tell him that the bistro chair I’m sitting on pokes my shoulder blades, that the table is cold and hard under my elbows, and that the closed-in part of the sidewalk café is drafty. You don’t get to complain about anything when you’re getting an all-expenses-paid training in Paris.
“How was your week?” he asks me, and I tell him.
We text every day throughout the day, but with the time difference, it’s complicated. The disconnect adds to the actual miles separating us, and these Sunday calls are the most precious of our times together.
“Your turn,” I say, and I close my eyes, listen to his voice, and visualize him, his apartment, the garage, and all of Emerald Creek as he talks to me. “Tell your mom and dad I said hi,” I say when he tells me he needs to shower and get ready. Grace, Ethan, and Colt are taking Shannon and Dennis out for brunch for his dad’s birthday.
The sound of his voice tells me he’s stretching when he answers, and for a beat that distracts me. “Gonna see if I can squeeze in another race before it’s over for the season.”
For some reason I can’t explain, that makes me sad. Or maybe it’s because he needs to go shower, and we have to say goodbye, and until next week we won’t be spending an hour on the phone.
2:13 p.m.
To: Willow
Don’t forget the muffins tomorrow. Colt mentioned Cass is dropping off her car—she likes the raspberry muffins.
4:02 p.m.
Willow:
Pretty sure we’re out of raspberries.
Really?
I thought there were several pounds frozen at the bakery.
4:03 p.m.
Ask Chloe
4:04 p.m.
Or Corine
4:10 p.m.
Sorry if I’m coming across as a little controlling
But this is Cassandra. She deserves us going above and beyond
6:19 p.m.
To: Chloe, Corine
Any chance you guys would have frozen raspberries?
6:25 p.m.
It’s for muffins for the garage. I can Venmo you
6:47 p.m.
Willow may or may not ask you
10:15 p.m.
To: Willow
Everything okay?
10:16 p.m.
To: Colton
How was brunch?
Monday, 1:00 a.m.
Willow
Heeey sorry! Was out of service. Omg Colt took us to one of his races and you were right!!! So much fun!! You should have seen his dad. He was so proud of his son!
3:00 a.m.
Chloe
We got you
3:10 a.m.
Willow
Found raspberries.
6:00 a.m.
…
…
heart emoji
The café au lait feels heavier than usual this morning, and the croissant I’m dipping in it tastes bitter. I run my thumb on the surface of my phone.
“?a va?” my roommate asks as she sits across from me.
“Oui oui. ?a va,” I lie. I’m not okay. I thought mastering the art of the soufflé would make me feel on top of the world. It doesn’t. It reduces me to a pastry chef, and that’s not who I want to be. I still want to do this as a living, because like my friends say, it brings me joy, but I don’t want this to be the essence of me.
1:00 p.m.
To: Colton
Heard you took your dad to the race! I’m so happy for you. How did he like it?
Colton
Hey sweets. Morning. Miss you.
Yeah, bunch of people came. It was okay.
3:00 p.m.
Just okay?
I’m so happy you did this.
Did Willow bring muffins?
5:00 p.m.
Yeah she did.
5:30 p.m.
What car did you race?
Did your mom go?
Who else was there?
9 p.m.
Sorry, was in the middle of something. Mom drove up with Dad. Grace and Ethan and other people from Emerald Creek came. No idea why or how.
10:10 p.m.
It was last minute
Shit, just saw the time. Sorry, love you.
Tuesday, 5:30 a.m.
Are you awake?
I’m awake
I click the phone symbol under Colt’s name.
“Hey, sweets.” His voice sends a ripple of pleasure down my spine, and a pang of want in my sternum. The way I miss him hurts me physically. “You okay?” he asks. There’s the telltale sound of ruffling sheets in the silence that follows, and I picture him in his bed.
“Better now.” It’s only half a lie. I am better now that we’ve bridged the time difference. Added to the distance, it makes communication so difficult.
But it’s also a reminder of how far away he is. Of how it would take us hours to be together. Closing my eyes, I can almost smell him. Almost feel his rugged hands on my nipples. “Are you in bed?” I whisper, stretching my feet on my own bed.
I share a room at the Institut, and privacy is hard to come by. But my roommate went to take a shower, and that buys me ten minutes of alone time on the phone with Colt.
“Yeah,” he breathes in the phone. “You alone?”
I sigh my answer and slide a hand in my panties.
He growls. “I read the book, sweets. Shit .”
I take it he liked the shapeshifter romance. “So… you wanna be the wolf or the bear?” I whisper.
“Imma be the snake that eats your cupcake.”
I’m not big into reptiles, but Colton’s voice does the trick. “I’m so wet, careful not to slip.”
He hisses. “Sliding right into your tight cunt, babe. Ah fuck, sweets.”
I haven’t read a snake shifter romance yet, and I vaguely wonder how I missed it at Millie’s, but I’m not letting that distract me. “Come in deeper.” I arch my back.
But a truck passes in the street, and voices sound down the hall, and my fingers are not what I need. “Talk to me, Colt. Please.”
“Come on my dick, sweets. I can hear the need in your voice. You’re just so ready for me, aren’t you? Atta girl. My little French whore, you.” His breathing labors. “Take it. Let go for me. Dripping tight cunt just for me.” The ruffling sounds on his end of the line accelerate, and I orgasm on my fingers, a pitiful release that doesn’t come close to what I’ve gotten addicted to with Colton.
Still, I whine in the phone, knowing he needs to hear that. It’s not a fake whine either, more like something I had to think about adding to our sad phone sex.
We stay quiet for a while, and I get situated on my bed, both hands on top of the covers for when my roommate comes back in.
I feel more than hear Colton’s yawn. “I should go to breakfast,” I lie. “Another big day today.” That’s not a lie.
He grunts. “Then I’m gonna sleep,” he says. “Love you, sweets. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Love you more.”
We disconnect the call right when my roommate comes in. “You look sad!” she says. She’s practicing her English for whatever international job she hopes to land. “You should telephone your boyfriend.”
“I just did.”
“Ah. I see. Let’s go out tonight after courses, for a glass.”
“After class, for a drink,” I automatically correct her.
She nods. “For a drink.”
I put on a brave little smile. “Maybe tomorrow. There are emails I need to take care of tonight. And I want to practice some more with the isomalt.”
“More practice? You’re already the best of us.”
“I messed up the beads, and I’m still iffy on the shading with the airbrush.”
“Iffy?”
“Not so sure about myself.”
That evening, after a full day of class and a quick chat with Colton during his lunch break, I go to the labs that the school lets us use for after-hours practice. After heating the nibs of isomalt, I don heat-resistant gloves, spray them with vegetable shortening, then lose myself in the complex task of spreading, turning, shaping the molten, translucent isomalt into ethereal beads. It irritates me, tests my patience, tests my willpower, and that’s why I want to master it.
I’ll tame the beast. I’ll be the best at this thing that drives me crazy.
It keeps my mind off everything else I can’t control in my life.
It’s past midnight when I get back to my room on my bed, open my laptop, and start with the email I sent to Annabel last night, and her response.
From: Kiara Smith
To: Annabel Plum
Subject: Tarte aux pommes
Hi Annabel
Hope all is well! Thanks for the tips on talking to the luxury cruise line. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Can you please help me craft a pretentious description for my new take on apple pie that needs to pass as poetry? It’s a thinly sliced apple tart. The apples are deglaced in chestnut honey, baked with cinnamon, pear liqueur, and caramel. I serve it with heavy cream.
From: Annabel Plum
To: Kiara Smith
Subject: Tarte aux pommes
Are they still doing that poetry shit?
Here you go: Fruit défendu déglacé au miel de chataigner, présenté en éventail coquin, épices du Levant, soupcon de liqueur de péché br?lant, désir de caramel inassouvi, petit pichet de crème fermière.
Before signing with the cruise line, get a lawyer to look at it or they’ll screw you on which labor laws apply.
Stay cool
A.
I smile at her answer about the pie, which is a convoluted, ambitious description with more sexual innuendo than I ever thought was possible in an apple tart, and make note of the legal advice.
Then I move onto the next item on my to-do list: Alex’s wedding cake.
From: Kiara Smith
To: Alexandra Pierce
Subject: Wedding cake
Okay girl, no rush but here are some things they are doing now in France. Just wanted to throw options for you to think about.
Super long cakes in a rectangle that go the whole length of the table. You can vary the decor and/or the flavors throughout. It makes it less spectacular, but more fun, more convivial. It serves as both centerpiece decor and family-style service but in cake form. We’d make as many as the number of tables you have. Of course that’s for long tables, not round.
Another idea, if you’re going for a vertical piece, we can make tiny replicas, cupcake size for each of the guests so they can enjoy them while you’re doing whatever you need to do with your big ass cake. Photos, cutting, smearing on each other’s nose, etc.
For flavors, it’s really up to you. I’m partial to maple, doesn’t mean I can’t pull off the classics, or we can go more creative and think basil, lavender, thyme, chamomile… what are you thinking?
Your bitch Kiara
I start browsing through Echoes when Alex’s answer comes in.
From: Alexandra Pierce
To: Kiara Smith
Subject: Wedding cake
Isn’t that a little much for Emerald Creek? You’re going all Parisian on me. Thanks so much, though. I have thoughts, but I gotta run.
Your girl Alex
2:46 a.m.
From: Kiara Smith
To: Alexandra Pierce
Subject: or…
You know what would be super fun? A dessert food truck. Cotton candy. Pop cakes. Smores.
2:49 a.m.
From: Alexandra Pierce
To: Kiara Smith
Subject: or…
Shouldn’t you be sleeping?
2:52 a.m.
From: Kiara Smith
To: Alexandra Pierce
Subject: or….
I don’t know, should I? :)
You’re such a mamma.
From: Alexandra Pierce
To: Kiara Smith
Subject: or…
:)
2:59 a.m.
Colton
Sweets. Get some sleep
3:00 a.m.
You just woke me up
3:02 a.m.
No I didn’t. You been talking to Alex
How do you know?
She’s sitting next to me
…
…
It’s community dinner at Justin’s
A pang of want like I didn’t think I’d feel again hits me. Fuck 3 a.m. It’s the worst part of the night. I should have remembered about community dinner. It was on Echoes, and I’m all over that shit 24/7 now. I guess I forgot about it.
3:08 a.m.
Tell everyone I say hi
3:10 a.m.
Is Evie there?
3:14 a.m.
Make sure she takes what she needs
3:17 a.m.
Have Grace talk to her. She’ll know what to say
3:25 a.m.
Did Grace say what kind of wedding cake she wants?
3:28 a.m.
Can you ask Grace how many people she’s thinking of having over?
5:05 a.m.
Hey babe I’m sorry. Justin made me do his karaoke thing and I couldn’t find my fucking phone after that. Going to bed now. Hope this doesn’t wake you up. Love you.