Milo
Spending time with Ethel is always a delight, but even more so this time since I learned a very useful fact. Rowan likes baked goods. He loves them, croissants specifically. And I’m going to use that to my advantage.
It’s the reason Jack is giving me weird looks as we peruse the closest grocery store. He doesn’t ask, because he never does, but I know he’s wondering why I’ve taken it upon myself to do the shopping.
Well, to answer the question that was never asked, it’s because I’m going to make Rowan freshly homemade croissants that will surely steal his heart, and I was too excited to stay home and wait for a home delivery.
I know, I know, Rowan made a huge deal about us being friends, and how that’s all we can be, but he’s completely wrong.
In fact, his show of self-restraint is what made me realize that he’s not someone to take advantage of the heat of the moment.
And as someone who lives on the wings of spontaneity, it makes me like him even more.
The grocery store is a maze. Rows of products listed in a vague order I can’t decipher, and Jack is perfectly happy pushing the cart while somehow still managing to look like an unmoving statue.
The not-talking is also part of his statue persona, which is another reason I wanted someone who’d converse with me as my next bodyguard. Jack is good at his job and caring in his silent ways, but he’s not much of a companion, which I know isn’t his job, but a man can hope!
Rowan is a great companion. It’s day two of his break, and I’m missing him terribly. He’s kind, hot, willing to put up with my antics, and did I mention hot? In fact, I’m one hundred percent sure he’s the perfect companion for me.
Companion, life partner, same thing, right?
At least that’s what I’m hoping to convince Rowan of with my croissants. Nobody can resist a confession from the heart. If I survive this grocery run, that is…
It’s been years since I last entered one, and thankfully, there aren’t many people here this time of day. Nobody seems to have noticed me yet, though my head is covered by my large hoodie, and the leather jacket I’m wearing is like a protective shield that amplifies my anonymity.
I don’t dare risk being exposed by asking a store clerk where anything is, so I’m left walking down each aisle to find what I need. Which, for a pastry that is said to be hard to make, doesn’t really need a lot of ingredients.
An hour later, I’ve finally found everything I need, so we check out and head home.
Jack helps me bring everything upstairs, and I’m surprised to find him hovering over me when I was expecting him to head home to his family right after.
I’d already told him I planned to spend the rest of the afternoon at home, so I didn’t need an escort.
He usually doesn’t stay unless there’s an event planned.
“Did Ray add something to the schedule and not tell me?” I ask him with a bit of panic in my voice. That would totally ruin my plans of having the croissants ready when Rowan returns tomorrow.
Jack hesitates. “No, but I think I should stay…just in case.”
“Why? Do you think someone’s going to break in?”
I’m genuinely confused about why he’s worried. The security in the building is top-notch, and I’ve never had an issue in the years I’ve been living here.
“I’m more worried about a problem arising from…inside the home,” Jack says cautiously.
His expression is neutral, but he glances at me, then at the kitchen. I may live in my own little bubble, but even I can see his distrust of my cooking abilities.
“Ye of little faith!” I shout and push him toward the elevator.
Despite being in his fifties, I can see why Jack is still one of the best in the field.
He doesn’t have Rowan’s height, but he’s still an immovable rock, and I’m ashamed to admit how much effort I used to get him moving.
I’m pretty sure the only reason he does is that he takes pity on my poor excuse for strength.
“I know how to use an oven. I have tons of oven-ready meals under my belt, so I’m not going to burn the place down. Don’t worry!” I tell him when I finally maneuver him to the elevator.
Jack is silent, and his stoic expression tells me he’s not at all convinced by my words. I give him my most reassuring smile, because for once, I want to be alone.
For all my confidence in winning Rowan over, it’s still my first time making croissants.
Or baking anything for that matter, but how hard can it be?
I found a croissant recipe online that doesn’t need three days and actually seems doable.
It’s probably still for the best if I don’t have an audience for this, though.
After pulling out the big guns, mentioning Jack’s granddaughter, he finally leaves. I return to my groceries and get started on decoding the recipe.
A couple hours later, and the recipe might as well be the world’s greatest mystery. The kitchen island is a mess of pieces of dough from failed attempts, and white powder, which I swear isn’t cocaine, coats me and practically every inch of my kitchen.
It takes another couple of attempts before I finally get my dough looking similar to the picture in the recipe. All that’s left is to let it rest for a couple hours before it goes into the oven.
I clean up the kitchen as best as I can, though the place is definitely going to need a deep clean.
By the time I cut and roll the tiny triangles into something that looks enough like a croissant, it’s the middle of the night.
I’m exhausted, and they need to rest for another couple hours, so I promptly pass out on the couch and leave the rest for tomorrow.
I’m woken bright and early the next morning with an annoying finger in my face. I try to swat the disturbance away and roll over to return to sleep, but I should know my best friend better than that.
He’s not one to give up.
“Do you mind?” I growl out, then almost have a heart attack when I open my eyes to find Ray’s face inches from mine. “What the hell is your problem?”
I push him away, but Ray just brushes off my attack and straightens. “Just making sure you’re alive and someone didn’t body swap you,” he says and flicks imaginary dust off his shoulders.
“Like anyone can replicate my brand of awesomeness.” I gesture down my body.
Ray makes a noise through his nose that’s a mix between a snort and a laugh. He turns to the kitchen. “Wanna tell me how a hurricane ran through the kitchen?”
His question has me jumping up and running to where I left the croissants. They look a little more swollen than the pictures from the recipe, but it should be fine.
“Now I must be the one still sleeping. Why are you even in the kitchen?” Ray asks me and shakes his head.
“It’s my kitchen. I can use it if I want.”
“But you can’t cook.”
“I can too!” I argue.
Ray’s look of skepticism says it all. I ignore him and place the tray into the oven, then set a timer.
Ray studies me. I refuse to meet his gaze and find a wet cloth to wipe the counters. Despite my attempts at cleaning last night, white powder—still not drugs!—clings to the surface. Who knew flour got everywhere?
Ray gives up on trying to figure me out and sighs.
“I’ll call someone to clean up while you’re out.
I have to run to the office really quickly, then pick up the outfit for your TV appearance tonight, so I ordered you breakfast. Linda will be here in a couple of hours, so don’t fall back to sleep,” he orders and looks around the kitchen again. “Please don’t burn the place down.”
“Why does everyone think I’ll do that!” I call at Ray’s departing figure. His reply is a wave over his shoulder as he enters the elevator.
He’s a jerk, but I’ll forgive him because he’s my best friend. And the dark circles under his eyes that now take up half his face are concerning. He has enough on his plate without having to deal with my messy emotions concerning my bodyguard.
I put my worries about Ray to the back of my mind. He can handle himself. Besides, the last time I suggested he rest, he looked like he was going to chew my head off, and I very much like my head where it is.
I quickly hop in the shower to wash away all the grime from yesterday’s kitchen battle, then wrap a towel around my waist and pad into my closet to grab my clothes.
My phone’s alarm blares before I can get dressed, and I run downstairs to check on the croissants, then realize I didn’t prepare the oven mitts to grab the tray.
I throw all the drawers open in hopes of finding them, and just when I do, my phone rings again.
It’s the lobby, and I’m thinking it’s the breakfast Ray ordered. I don’t think as I buzz them through, much more worried about burning my pastries than anything else.
I manage to get the croissants out of the oven before they burn to a crisp. Some of the ends are slightly charred, but I can just cut or tear them off. All in all, it’s a good first attempt, if I do say so myself!
I’m grinning widely and turn to place the tray on the island just when the elevator door opens and out comes Rowan.
“Rowan! You’re just in time!”
I’m pumped at my baking success and am excited to show it to him that I don’t think about anything else and run over to greet him. I completely forgot that I’m only in a towel and totally shouldn’t be running right now.
I make it halfway to him before the towel loosens from my waist and drops to the floor. Worst of all, my legs are faster than my senses, and my foot catches on the towel, and we all know how that goes.
Next thing I know, I’m airborne and falling backward. I catch Rowan dropping the bag in his hands and running toward me, but I’m already resigned to the scrapes and bumps I’ll get from the fall. I’ve had worse during dance practice.
Rowan must be made of magic, because he suddenly appears in front of me. He scoops me into his arms and twists our bodies around, and we have a repeat of The Great Jump Rope Incident.