Chapter 23 #2
I stared at him. My face was doing something. I could feel it.
"That's," I said. "That's-you keep saying things like that."
"Like what?"
I pushed myself up. Turned to face him. "Things that make me-things that make me feel like-" I stopped. Took a breath. "You're supposed to be the one who doesn't talk. That's your whole thing. Quiet. Brooding. Mysterious."
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm mysterious?"
"Yes. Very mysterious. Extremely mysterious. And then you say things like 'I eat them because you made them' and I don't know what to do with that."
His hand found my hip again. Pulled me closer.
"What do you want to do with it?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
The timer went off.
I scrambled off the couch so fast I nearly fell. Behind me, I heard him exhale-not quite a laugh, but close. I refused to look at him. I pulled the cake out of the oven, set it on the counter, stared at it like it was the most important cake in the history of cakes.
It was perfect. Golden. Risen. The smell filled the kitchen-chocolate and butter and something warm that made my chest ache.
"It looks good," he said from behind me.
I jumped. He had followed me. Of course he had followed me. He was always following me, appearing behind me, making me forget what I was doing.
"It's supposed to look good," I said. "It's my grandmother's recipe."
"When do we eat it?"
I turned to look at him. "We have to wait for it to cool."
"How long?"
"At least an hour."
He looked at the cake. Looked at me. Something in his expression shifted.
"That's a long time."
"It's necessary. If you cut it too early, it falls apart."
He stepped closer. His hands found my waist, pulling me back against him. His lips brushed my ear.
"I'm patient."
I swallowed. "You don't seem patient."
"I can be." His voice was low. "When it's worth waiting for."
I turned in his arms. His hands stayed on my hips, holding me there, and his eyes were dark and focused and looking at me like I was something he had been waiting for.
"The cake," I said. My voice came out breathless. "We're talking about the cake."
"We're talking about the cake."
"You're not talking about the cake."
He leaned down. His lips brushed the corner of my mouth. "What am I talking about?"
I couldn't answer. My hands were flat against his chest. His heart was beating under my palm. Steady. Strong. Not fast like mine. Never fast like mine.
"I want to taste it," he said.
I stared at him. "The cake?"
His mouth curved. That almost-smile. The one that did things to my concentration.
"The cake," he agreed.
I pushed him. He didn't move.
"Let me go."
"No."
"I need to make the frosting."
"Later."
"Caspian-"
He kissed me. Soft at first. Gentle. The way he kissed me in the mornings, before I left for work, when I was still half-asleep and leaning into him. But then my hands slid up to his shoulders and he made a sound-low, quiet, something I felt more than heard-and the kiss changed.
When we pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine. His breathing was uneven.
"You have flour on your nose," he said.
I laughed. It came out breathless. "You're supposed to tell me these things."
"I'm telling you now."
I pulled back, wiped my nose. There was flour on my fingers. I had flour everywhere. I probably looked like I had rolled around in the bag.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face. His fingers lingered on my cheek.
"You're a mess," he said.
"Your mess."
His eyes met mine. Something flickered there-something deep, something he was trying to hide.
"Yeah," he said. "My mess."
His lips found mine again.
"The frosting," I said, pulling away.
"Later."
"An hour."
"Plenty of time."
He kissed me again. I forgot about the cake.
---
The cake was perfect. We ate it after dinner, sitting on the couch, plates balanced on our knees. He didn't say much. He didn't have to.
"You were right," he said, taking another bite.
"About what?"
"It tastes better than it looks."
I smiled. "I know."
"Cocky."
"Confident."
He reached out. His finger touched the edge of the frosting, came away white, lifted to my lips.
"Taste," he said.
I opened my mouth. My tongue wrapped around his finger. His eyes followed the movement. I saw something close to desire pass through him. I tasted sugar and butter and chocolate and something else. Something I couldn't name.
"Good?" he asked.
I swallowed. "Good."
He smiled again. That small, real smile. And I thought, for a moment, that maybe I could keep this. Maybe I could keep him. Maybe this was what it felt like to have something that was just mine.
We ate it on the couch, my feet tucked under his thigh, his arm around my shoulders. He didn't say it was good. He didn't have to. He finished his slice and reached for another.
"You like it," I said.
"I like what you make."
"That's not an answer."
He looked at me. His eyes were warm in the low light, his face relaxed, his thumb tracing patterns on my shoulder.
"I like it," he said. "I like watching you make it. I like the way you look when you're doing something you love."
My chest tightened.
"I like the way you smile when you think I'm not looking," he continued. "I like the way you talk to yourself when you're measuring ingredients. I like the way you shoved that whisk at me like it was a weapon."
"You were being annoying."
"You were being cute."
I stared at him. "You've never called me cute."
He reached out. His finger traced the line of my jaw. "You're cute when you're bossy. You're cute when you're focused. You're cute when you're trying not to smile and failing."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I don't know what to say to that," I said.
He pulled me closer. His lips brushed my forehead.
"Then don't say anything."
I didn't.
We sat there as the light faded, the cake half-finished on the coffee table, his arm around my shoulders, my head on his chest. And I thought about what he had said. I like watching you do something you love.
I tilted my head up. His eyes were closed. His breathing was slow. He looked peaceful in a way I had never seen him look.
I pressed a kiss to his jaw. His arm tightened around me. And for a moment, I let myself believe that this was my life now. Small kitchens. Baking on holidays. A man who kissed me like I was something worth keeping.