Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Seated in a room with white walls and ceiling, a white floor, and sleek, minimalist white furniture, Junie and I may as well be in a padded cell.
Given the tension between us, we probably belong in one.
I’m not sure what broke my ban on her other than proximity, admitting that I still have feelings for her, and Guiliana’s comments about what I should tell my “friend” about relationships, but I’m back and I’m in and I want her.
I choose her.
The thing is, I’m afraid that if I tell her that, she’ll double down on pushing me away. Yet, she cannot resist me. I’m not saying that as a braggart or because I want it to be true.
It’s a fact.
“You’re doing it,” I say.
Junie asks, “Doing what?”
“Looking at me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, that’s generally what humans do when they’re having a conversation.”
“No, you’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“The same way you were looking at me on the sidewalk outside the salon.”
Her cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink, which is a nice contrast to this sterile environment.
There’s no denying our chemistry. Neither time nor distance has dulled our attraction to each other. It’s remarkable, actually.
Sure, we know which buttons to push to get under each other’s skin.
And the fire that blazes when our fingers so much as brush.
For instance, under the table, her foot makes contact with my ankle. She could kick me, but it rests there comfortably.
We know how to aggravate and irritate, but mostly we’re on our best behavior.
Okay, decent behavior because we’ve been debating whether CK, this surgical theater of bakeries, is named thus because the owner removed the vowels from the word cake to be avant-garde, clever, or if it stands for something else.
This might go down in the books as the oddest place I’ve ever been. Having grown up on the Lower East Side, that’s saying something.
CK, also the name of the owner and baker, appears from a door that disappears into the white wall and arrays a long plate in front of us with four squares covered in white frosting.
Staring at Junie with eyes open so wide I can see the whites on all sides, he says, “To your left is the beetroot and carob, then matcha tahini twist, chili olive oil, and my personal favorite, avocado curd champagne.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I was thinking of something more traditional. Like chocolate.”
“Miguel,” Junie says through gritted teeth and without moving her lips.
“Darling,” I say, because once more we were mistaken for a couple.
However, this time Junie was quick to correct the mistake and explained to CK that we’re friends of the bride and groom-to-be.
I wish we’d played pretend. At least then I could get away with telling this guy to back off.
The last twenty minutes have been a comedy of errors and annoyance because even though we were three minutes late, CK, with his pencil neck and oddly shaped head—some men shouldn’t shave their heads and accept that they have a chrome dome—made us wait thirty.
Also, some dudes shouldn’t try to creep on my Junie. CK, also one of them.
He practically drapes himself over her while describing the merits of each flavor. His fingers brush hers when he sets out the forks. If he dares to try to feed her, these walls will no longer be white.
With a faux French accent that slips a few times, CK says, “When I measure the ingredients, I am very precise. Very considerate of the sumptuousness of the flavor profiles. It’s an exacting science that I take very seriously.
When I mix the dough, I infuse it with my passion to provide a luscious experience for the lucky recipient of my creations. ”
Junie leans away, reclaiming her personal space. She isn’t uncomfortable as much as she is skeeved and peeved. She’s brought down cat callers in the city, much bigger than CK. If he’s not careful, he’s going to find himself with a fork jutting out of the top of his hand. I wouldn’t put it past her.
I’d never hesitate to step in to protect Junie, but she can handle herself, and the tension in her shoulders suggests she’s contemplating the severity of the consequences if she impales this guy’s mitts.
Shane suggested a few bakeries for the wedding cake and I made appointments, the last one being at Casey’s Kakes, figuring we’d score big and get to eat some cake in the process.
However, I made an error when programming the address into my GPS, thinking the CK Bakery was the same as Casey’s Kakes Bakery. Suffice it to say, I was distracted by the woman in the passenger seat. My bad.
This realization came when CK described his “process” of reading the couple’s “aura shape, color, and texture” to come up with favorable flavors.
I’m all for sweets and treats, but his creations are just a little too avant-garde for me.
Whether it’s this strange, sterile environment, the quantity of sugar we’ve consumed, or something else like the way Junie has been looking at me all day, I feel jittery inside.
My ego is big, but she’s the first person on the planet who’d deflate it and I’m certain the glances she sneaks mean something.
I’ll admit that I’ve been doing the same.
That whole thing about how it takes one to know one.
Her hair is down today, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves.
Her eyes are smoky as usual and sheer gloss coats her lips, reminding me of cherries.
She’s wearing a dark red sweater and jeans that tease her ankles.
Give me ankles, wrists, and everything in between. Junie is a brunette bombshell.
There’s no denying that I still have feelings for her. Big ones. There’s ride or die and then there’s till death do us part. I want that one.
CK says, “I have one more special flavor in mind, but I’ll have to ask you to come back this evening.” His penetrating gaze doesn’t waver from Junie.
Her lips press into a thin line and she gets to her feet. “You know, I’m having second thoughts about Erica and Shane having a cake. Miguel, what do you think of a dessert bar?”
I have no idea what that is, but I’ve never heard of a better idea. “One hundred percent.”
CK peers down his nose as if it’s beneath him. “That’s very last season.”
I bump her elbow with mine. “I like it when you speak your mind.”
“I’m speaking on Erica’s behalf. She loves cupcakes and macarons. Plus, it’s a Thanksgiving-themed wedding, so we should probably have pie. Pumpkin, apple, pecan ...”
CK utters, “Abominations to baking.”
My pinky grips hers. “I love it when you talk pie.”
She squeezes back like it’s her lone grip on normalcy. “CK, thank you for your time and the samples of, um, your creations. We’ll be in touch if we need anything further—”
“My name is CK,” he says, pronouncing the word cake. “For I am The Cake.”
I do everything in my power not to break down laughing, which probably makes me look like a gorilla that just swallowed a firecracker.
Pinkies linked, we race out of there and onto the street.
When we reach the car, Junie says, “He said that he’s the cake.”
We both start laughing.
When I catch my breath, I say, “He had a fake French accent.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m trilingual.”
“French isn’t one of the languages you speak.”
“Trust me, he was trying to impress you.”
“With his shoestring mustache?”
I can’t suppress my grin because Junie likes hair. A lot of it.
I fluff mine a little. “I do need a haircut.”
“Nice to change the subject to you.”
“Would you prefer that I talk about CK’s luscious passion for dough?”
She spurts a laugh. “Did that bother you?”
“I hope it bothered you. I can imagine he has some creepy altar in his closet in homage to the cake gods.”
“You’re probably right. Forget about him. What are we going to do about the cake?”
I contemplate what to say next because I love the idea of us doing something aside from planning someone else’s wedding.
“We could grab dinner.”
“I’m stuffed, and anyway, I meant about the cake.”
“I liked your idea about the Thanksgiving theme. Plus, there’s one more place.” I explain how I got the names wrong when I plugged them into my GPS.
We pull up to Casey’s Kakes—another unique spelling, but this place has a pink and white striped awning, a shabby chic style, and while the walls are white, they’re covered in photos of smiling couples on their wedding days, cutting the cake.
Plus, butter and sugar scent the air, and a display case filled to the brim with delicious baked goods greets us, along with a sign that says, “Cinnamon Spice and Everything Nice to Slice.”
While Casey prepares some samples, I say, “Tell me about the dessert table with a Thanksgiving theme.”
“I don’t want to think about Thanksgiving.”
“Why?”
“Because my first attempt at making a pumpkin pie was an abysmal failure.”
“Maybe we could bake one together.”
She scoffs as Casey brings out normal-looking desserts, addresses both of us, and doesn’t claim to be the cake.
My thoughts trip up on what she said about not wanting to think about Thanksgiving. We have games surrounding the holiday, but we will get the day off.
My family puts the fun in dysfunctional, but I imagine it’ll be lonely with just Junie and her mom this year.
But she’s smiling as she licks the cinnamon cream cheese frosting off her fork.
“That was good. I think we found a winner.”
“I would say so.” I dab my mouth so I don’t drool.
Forget the cake, I want her.
Her gaze floats to mine and I let it linger, soak it in. Junie may not be able to say with words how she feels about me, but I can’t not see it.
I whisper, “You’re looking at me again.”
“Am not.”
“Are so.”
“Where else am I supposed to look? You’re seated across from me.”
“You could look at the truth.”
“Oh, and what is that?” She cocks her head.
My half smile grows. “That we had a good time today.”
“A good time? Debatable. But the pumpkin spice, chocolate swirl, cream cheese frosted cake was good.”
I shake my head slowly. “As bad as we can be together, we can also be good.”
“Also debatable.”
“There’s still something between us.”
She’s saved by Casey, who returns with one more sample. “I haven’t officially debuted this on the menu, but your timing is perfect, so I figure, why not take a chance. Maybe you’ll like it.
Maybe Junie and I still like each other.
Junie takes a bite of the maple buttercream cake with layers of apple, pumpkin, and pecan. “Oh, my goodness. This is phenomenal.” Her gaze lands on me as if to gauge my response.
I take a bite as I hold the most beautiful pair of brown eyes, streaked with cinnamon, sugar, and spice in my gaze. “I love it.”
Her voice a whisper, Junie says, “Me too.”
Perhaps we still love each other. But before either one of us will admit that, we need to restore our friendship.