Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Danny circles me, his hands on his hips. “Alright, Theranos. Your turn.”
I shiver despite the cozy sweatshirt and pajama bottoms I was instructed to wear for the occasion.
“The first step in becoming a hedonist is learning to appreciate pleasure free from its preconceived value.” He pulls out a stool from the kitchen island and motions for me to sit. I do, but he stays right behind me.
Something silky slips over my eyes. A blindfold.
“Hey—”
“Trust me,” he murmurs in concentration. “It’s part of the lesson.”
I sigh and submit to the dark.
“How does it feel?”
“Anxiety-inducing. But if you’re referring to the material of the blindfold, it’s definitely a cotton-poly blend.”
“I’m referring to the anticipation. I’ve blindfolded you, and you don’t know what’s going to happen. Some people find that pleasurable.”
My chest rises and falls more obviously, so I constrict my breathing a bit. I can’t have him notice the effect he’s having on me.
“Some with control issues may find it uncomfortable,” he says.
I shift in my seat and try to see out of the pinpricks of light at the bottom of the blindfold, but it’s no use.
“Open your mouth.” His instruction is low and commanding.
“Danny, I swear to god, if you put hot sauce on my tongue—”
“I’m into pleasure, Theranos, not pain. Well … mostly.” I can almost hear his dimples appearing.
“Fine. But tomorrow, you’re getting out of bed as early as I choose. No snoozing. And with a mantra.”
“Deal.”
I open my mouth obediently. Nothing happens. Danny is watching me—I can sense it. My cheeks blaze at the vulnerability and an unwelcome throb of blood flows downward. Clearly, my body doesn’t realize this man is my client. Or it doesn’t care.
I can’t take the suspense any longer, and I’m about to rip my blindfold off when a dollop of lemon crème is placed gingerly on my tongue, the bright tanginess giving way to a creamy finish. Instantly, I want more.
“Wow,” I say, licking my lips. “Good.”
“Something salty next,” he murmurs, all business. A kettle chip is placed on my tongue, and I crunch it in one bite, the salt giving way to soothing oils and starches.
“Did you know that tasting sweet and salty things together hijacks your brain and makes overeating impossible to avoid?” I spew out robotically.
His voice is right next to my ear, startling me with its proximity. “Did you know that it tastes fucking fantastic?”
“Fair callout,” I say, hoping for sweet next. Maybe something chocolatey.
He slips off my blindfold.
“Wait, that’s it?” I say, my disappointment obvious. “Shouldn’t I get to eat a roll of raw cookie dough or something?”
His head tilts to one side. “How would you feel if you did?”
“Paranoid about salmonella.”
“Which wouldn’t add to your net pleasure.”
“That sounds an awful lot like moderation.”
“Moderation is key in hedonism. There’s always a tipping point where something pleasurable gets ruined by excess.
Well, almost always.” There are those dimples again, those sparkling eyes of a troublemaker.
I worry he can read my thoughts, that he knows I’m always halfway back in his tidy, cool room, lying atop his Prussian duvet.
Luckily, he’s now busying himself in the pantry and doesn’t notice whatever it is my face is doing.
He pulls down a large glass container of flour and a tiny sachet of yeast. He reaches up for a giant metal bowl, his arm muscles stretching gloriously beneath his thermal, and, suddenly, I’m thrilled to have been relieved of my blindfold.
“Grab me those measuring spoons,” he says, working around the kitchen in a slow, capable rhythm. He preheats the oven and begins measuring flour into the bowl.
“It’s kind of late for carbs,” I say, eyeing the flour.
“I bet you’re fun at parties. Stir.” He hands me a wooden spoon and slowly adds water, salt, honey, and yeast to the bowl while I stir.
“I’ll have you know I’m very fun at parties.”
“Tupperware parties, maybe,” he smirks. “Come here.”
He maneuvers me in front of the dough. I poke at it with one finger.
“No. Like this.” He reaches around me, submerging my hands in the soft bread dough and manipulating it like clay. “Slowly,” he says, his large hands covering mine as we move the dough back and forth in rhythmic pulses until it relents, smoothing to our will. “Don’t rush it.”
“Big fan of Ghost, are we?” I say, trying to cut through the heaviness that’s settled around us. Danny ignores me.
“My grandmother had a book called The Art of Eating,” he says instead. “I used to read it to her when we baked. One of the quotes reminds me of you.”
“You’re about to insult me, I can tell. Let me guess—it’s a recipe for square bitter blondies.”
“ ‘It is one of those almost hypnotic businesses,’ ” Danny recites, his lips mere centimeters from my ear while our hands knead in syncopated rhythms, “ ‘like a dance from some ancient ceremony. It leaves you filled with one of the world’s sweetest smells … there is no chiropractic treatment, no yoga exercise, no hour of meditation in a music-throbbing chapel that will leave you emptier of bad thoughts than this homely ceremony of making bread.’ ”
I turn my chin slightly. He doesn’t move his face away. An inch closer and his mouth would cover mine. I breathe in, and force myself to turn away, focusing my attention back on the dough.
“Sounds like if more people baked bread, I’d go out of business,” I say, my voice too husky as I try to clear the air of thickness. Of his heat.
Danny gathers all the dough into a ball and sets it back in the mixing bowl with a tea towel over the top, giving me a moment to compose myself after all the hypnotic kneading business.
“Now what?” I say, once my hands are washed and my heart rate has returned to an almost nonhorny level.
“We let the dough proof.”
“How long does that take?”
“Every batch is different, but this is a quick bread. Maybe fifteen minutes.”
“What should we do while we wait?”
Danny isn’t listening. He’s looking past me to his bar cart, a familiar mischievous glint in his eye. He crosses to open the lower cabinet where I’ve secured all the booze. It’s locked.
“Damn, you life coaches don’t mess around,” he says quietly, shaking his head.
I put my hands on my hips, satisfied. “Best lock money can buy. If you get past that thing, I’ll open the bottle myself.”
He turns to look at me, seemingly thinking of what to do.
Then he closes the distance between us, his hand reaching to smooth a few strands of hair from my face.
I gasp as he reaches behind to the nape of my neck, gliding past the tender spot that’s aching to be touched, and removes the large bobby pin holding my hair in its tidy chignon.
My hair tumbles all around me and my lips part in surprise.
Blood surges to my cheeks and lips, rosing my features with heat.
My body wants Danny, and it’s being super fucking obvious about it.
His face changes then, seeing me for the first time unkept in the dimly lit kitchen.
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple jogging up his throat.
He waits a beat, watching me, reading the moment.
I turn away, tucking my hair behind my ears.
Danny forces his attention back to the cabinet, using my bobby pin to pick the lock.
It opens immediately, not putting up even the briefest of fights, and amber and green bottles glint in the dim light. He selects a bottle, and turns it to me bottom first.
I sigh, take it, and get to work popping the cork while he takes down two etched wine goblets. Then he pours deep burgundy ribbons into each.
“Um, five ounces only,” I say, but his eyes are on mine as he goes up ounce by ounce, reaching more likely a generous eight ounces, recklessly eschewing the terse medical recommendations for alcohol consumption.
I breathe deeply through my nose, but it does little to increase my oxygen levels.
My proximity to Danny is sending SOS signals through my entire body.
“So, you said you’d bake with your grandmother?” I say finally, landing on the one topic capable of killing anyone’s ardor: grandmothers.
Danny nods. “She loves gossip, and it didn’t take her long to realize she got the most intel out of me while we worked in the kitchen, so baking became our thing. We made a new loaf every day.”
“You don’t strike me as the expert baker type,” I say, sipping my wine.
“Yeah, well,” Danny says, swirling his glass. “Things aren’t always as they appear.”
“And did it empty your bad thoughts? This ‘homely ceremony of making bread?’ ” I like the feeling of his favorite quote on my tongue.
Sadness plays around Danny’s eyes. “Almost all of them.” He takes a drink. “Anyway, you’ll meet her when we take the train to Oregon on Friday.”
“Excuse me?”
“For family supper.”
“Your grandmother’s family supper is a real thing? I thought that was just a yarn crafted to pick up women.”
“Very real. This one is special because it’s her platinum birthday. And I have no interest in being banished to the kids’ table. Everyone is looking forward to meeting you.”
“You told her about me? I mean, about you having a life coach,” I add quickly.
“Of course.”
“What did she say?”
Danny laughs. “You sure you want to know?”
“Yes. Tell me.”
“OK. Just keep in mind she has a habit of passing off aphorisms as her own wisdom. Aristotle, Oprah, no one is safe from her plagiarism. This time she borrowed from Hale Kealohalani Makua,” he says, his honey eyes on mine.
“ ‘Love all you see, including yourself.’ ” He glances down at my lips, a frown tugging at his mouth. His eyes trail back up to mine.
“Um,” I say, twirling my hair back up into a knot to give myself something to do with my hands. “Shouldn’t we get that bread in the oven now?”
“Oh, yeah.” He makes a fuss of flipping the dough into the Dutch oven, fretting over scoring the top. I pour more wine.
With the quick French bread in the oven, and its heavenly scent drifting around the kitchen, Danny and I clean up.
With every scrub of the sponge, the heavy moment earlier mercifully dissipates into a clean, lemon scent.
Twenty minutes later, the lump of dough has transformed into a golden loaf of French bread, its thick, toasty crust giving way to an airy middle, perfect for capturing rolling drops of melted butter.
“It’s too good,” I say, reaching for another slice before my last bite is even swallowed.
Danny chews slowly, leaning back in his chair, satisfied in watching me enjoy.
He nudges the butter closer to me, and I eagerly reach for it.
“Oh my god.” The carbs and butter are soaking my pleasure sensors with serotonin.
The smell, the warmth, the pride in having made it with my own hands.
Finally, the crescendo of texture and taste.
“Bread is the best example of a simple pleasure. The danger of Gracie killing us if she found out makes it taste even better.” He grins, his dimple flashing devilishly.
I’m glad he brought up Gracie. I’d been thinking of a way of circling the conversation over to her.
“Gracie seems like a very competent trainer,” I say. “But she also seems to …”
“Hate my guts?”
“Yes. What happened there?”
Danny doesn’t answer.
I set the bread down. “At some point, you’re going to have to start being more open.”
“You first.”
“I don’t have any secrets.”
“Really? Let’s start with why you took this job.”
“You picked me.”
“You said yes, and I want to know why. C’mon, Theranos. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“Fine. But you first.”
Danny leans back, and places both hands flat on the table. “You’re right. Gracie and I have a history, and it ended poorly.”
I lean forward. “Go on.”
“Out of respect for her privacy, I’d like to leave it there. Your turn.”
“But that’s not fair. I could already tell there was a history by the fire in her eyes. I need to know more.”
“Your turn. A deal’s a deal.”
I clench my fists. “Fine. I said yes to coaching you because there’s a job in Malibu I’m after, and meeting your goals will get it for me.” He didn’t give me the full story, so no need to tell him about Casey.
“Malibu, huh?” Danny shrugs. “I guess they make sleeveless turtlenecks.”
“Very funny.”
Danny taps something into his phone, and the low, soulful crooning of Ray LaMontagne fills the room in stunning surround sound. He stands, holding out his hand.
I stare at it. “What?”
“I’m assuming you don’t dance as a rule. But we’re covering all the basics of simple pleasures here, and dancing in the kitchen at midnight is at the top of my list.”
“It’s midnight? How’d that happen?” I glance at the wine bottle and see that it’s now empty.
“No panicking near the bread. You’ll mess with its vibes. C’mon. Dance with me.”
I continue staring at his hand, not budging. “You’re wrong about this one. I always dance.”
“Prove it.”
Danny pulls me up and holds me close to him, a respectful hand on my lower back, my right hand enveloped by his bear paw. He sways me to the music, and my nose is perfectly positioned to catch a faint scent of aftershave at the base of his neck.
“So you do dance,” he says, his smile amused. “I stand corrected.”
“At weddings and funerals, mostly.”
“Funerals?”
“My friend Ally wanted her service to be more like a party,” I explain, “so I hired a live band and had her favorite taco truck cater it, and everyone drank margaritas and danced all night. It almost felt like she was with us.”
The pressure increases on my back just slightly. “She was lucky to have a friend like you, who would know just what she wanted.”
Old guilt pricks at me like new sweat. No, she should have had a better best friend. One who wouldn’t immediately start falling for her husband once she was gone. One capable of letting him move forward with another woman rather than blocking him at every turn.
“She was a better friend to me, actually,” I say, as Danny lowers me into an elegant dip. I wince, the angle enflaming the pinched nerve in my neck.
“No. You can’t sleep on that thing anymore. It’s hurting you.”
“It’s not so bad. Just need to do some stretching.”
“Take the real bed tonight. I insist.”
“You can’t sleep on a crummy air mattress. Not with the training Gracie is putting you through.”
A lock of hair falls into his eyes as he looks down at me. “We could share the real bed.”
I immediately disentangle myself and raise an accusatory finger. “I knew it. The wine, the dancing. You’re trying to seduce me.”
“I’m just being a realist. You can’t live in pain the rest of our time together. And my bed’s a king. You won’t even know I’m there.”
The semideflated air mattress looks sad and uncomfortable in the corner of the room. I’m already dreading spending another night tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn’t exist.
“I’m good,” I say.
“Your choice. But just so you know”—he tilts his head down, a few strands of hair shading his eye—“if I was trying to seduce you, you’d know it.”