3
The second date was in two hours. Blake was not ready. The stain was definitely there. Right beneath the left boob, like a caffeinated badge of shame.
Blake tugged at the hem of her white tee, glaring at the blotch. How long had it been there? More importantly, how did she get coffee under her boob?
She groaned and peeled it off mid-jog down the hallway, yelling, ‘Morgs! Have you seen my new white tee? The good one, not the one currently bathing in Napisan where it has been since last Sunday morning?’
Without lifting her head from the kitchen table, Morgan replied, ‘I folded it. Third drawer from the top. Between the grey and the cream. You’re welcome.’
Blake paused mid-step. ‘Your borderline-compulsive folding habit has finally justified itself.’
She yanked the top on, ran back into the kitchen, and promptly stopped at the undeniable smell of smoke. ‘Oh shit, the nuggets.’
The air fryer beeped insistently. She flung it open, and was met with the sad, charcoal ghosts of what might have once been chicken.
Morgan didn’t look up from her iPad. ‘Are we carbon dating these nuggets or eating them?’
‘They’re not that bad,’ Blake said, fanning the air. ‘They’re just atmospherically crisped.’
Morgan smirked, still tapping at her screen.
As Blake dumped the tray in the sink and turned on the tap, Morgan asked, ‘Was it true, what Mack said this morning?’
Blake turned off the tap. ‘Which part?’
‘That the last guy you went on a second date with was my dad?’
The words landed like a physical blow. Blake gripped the edge of the sink, steadying herself against the cool metal. Even after thirteen years, the memory of him caused her to choke up. One perfect week that had ruined her for everyone else.
‘Yeah,’ she said, turning around. ‘It was true.’
Morgan nodded and, after a beat, added, ‘You never talk about him.’
The accusation hung unspoken between them.
Morgan was right. Blake could tell stories about disastrous Tinder dates, joke about sauce disasters and dating-app nightmares until everyone was crying with laughter.
But Leo? That week was different. Sacred, almost. Too precious to turn into entertainment.
‘There’s not much to say. I only knew him for a week,’ she said.
Morgan was tapping her fingers on the edge of her iPad. Three light taps, over and over.
Blake stared at Morgan’s fingers. ‘He used to do that too.’
Morgan stopped. ‘What?’
‘He always tapped in threes. Like he had a beat running in his head.’ Her throat tightened. ‘He was a musician. You definitely get that from him.’
Morgan studied her fingers, as if the rhythm might be visible under her skin. ‘Three taps. Always three. Is that genetic or learned behaviour?’
Blake smiled despite the ache spreading through her chest. ‘With you? Probably both. You analyse everything like it’s a theorem to prove.’
‘Theorems have solutions,’ Morgan said matter-of-factly. ‘People don’t. Did you ever try to find him?’
Blake met her daughter’s eyes. ‘Of course I did. I searched for months. Every name, every number, every whisper of a lead. I wanted him to know he had a daughter. I just never found the right trail. We didn’t live so online back then, not really.’ She looked pointedly at Morgan’s iPad.
A voice came from the hallway. ‘Smells like emotional trauma and burnt nuggets.’
Chelsea entered, bags of Thai food in one hand, a bottle of wine under the other arm. She dropped the bags on the bench like she’d done it a hundred times before.
‘You ever knock?’ Blake asked.
‘You ever lock your door?’
Morgan gave Chelsea a look. ‘Why are you here?’
Chelsea’s eyes flicked between them, reading the room. ‘Bad timing?’
‘Just talking about Morgan’s dad,’ Blake said, busying herself with wiping down the already-clean bench.
Chelsea’s expression shifted, the teasing dropping away.
She hadn’t known Blake back then, but six years of friendship had taught her this topic only surfaced after at least two glasses of wine.
‘Right. Well, I’m here to supervise your wardrobe and prevent you from texting something tragic like “Hey, just remembered I have violent diarrhoea” or “My dog’s psychic said he’s not to go”.
‘You know me too well,’ Blake said.
‘I also come bearing pad see ew,’ Chelsea added, giving Morgan a knowing look as she passed. ‘And years of experience talking your mum down from emotional ledges.’
Morgan returned to her iPad, but Blake saw the slight relaxation in her shoulders.
Chelsea glanced at Blake. ‘You okay?’
Blake exhaled. ‘Honestly, I haven’t been on a second date since Leo. I sometimes worry I made that whole week up. If I didn’t have Morgan, it’d feel like a fever dream.’
‘Doesn’t mean you can’t have something real again.’
Chelsea began dishing out pad see ew into two bowls, then added, ‘If you ever did want to find him, you’ve got the mic and one of the biggest platforms in the country.’
Blake felt Morgan’s gaze lift from the table. Their eyes locked for a moment, and something passed between them. Not pressure. Not permission, exactly. But maybe an understanding.
She looked back to Chelsea. ‘It was a long time ago.’
Chelsea shrugged. ‘Doesn’t mean someone won’t remember something from that time. We just need a lead. And hey, we found the Frankentroll.’
Blake was standing in front of her wardrobe forty minutes later, holding two tops against herself. The black was safe. The white was basically asking for another sauce disaster. Her phone sat on the dresser, screen dark. Her thumb hovered over it for a moment before she grabbed the white top.
The phone buzzed. A text from the station: Your date destination has been confirmed. Address to follow.
Of course they’d turned her love-life into a game show. She checked her reflection one more time and headed out.
She should have known better.
The building was half-covered in ivy, and the sign above the door read: KNEAD ME: Get Hands-on. Stay Saucy.
Blake stared at it. ‘Of course,’ she muttered. ‘Of course they sent me here.’
She stepped inside to find long wooden benchtops dusted with flour, bowls of eggs and mixing tools, and exactly the kind of warm lighting that screamed influencer date night.
Fettuccine Guy stood near the front, sleeves already rolled up, chatting with the instructor. His sandy hair caught the warm light, and she noticed the slight crook in his nose when he turned in profile.
When he saw her, his smile flickered to life. ‘You made it. It’s not really the coffee date I had in mind.’
‘They only gave me the address. Wouldn’t even tell me what the actual place was. This has Mack, all over it,’ Blake replied.
A little name card on the nearest bench read: Blake & Fettuccine Guy!
Blake groaned. ‘Never living this down. They even put your name as that in my phone.’
‘Chelsea gave me your number, said you’d okayed it but that you might try to bail. Now I have it, you can’t ghost me again.’
Blake reached for her apron. It read Saucy Since 2009 in cursive lettering across the front. She turned it around with a sigh.
He grinned as he tied his own. His read Knead Me, Baby, One More Time.
The instructor clapped. ‘Welcome to Knead Me! Tonight, we’re making fresh fettuccine with a tomato sugo that might save your marriage or start a new one. Let’s knead!’
The flour came first. Big silver bowls of it, dumped on each bench with theatrical flair. They were to make a well in the middle, crack in two eggs, and mix it with their hands.
Blake stared at her station. ‘It’s artisanal Play-Doh.’
Fettuccine Guy rolled up his sleeves higher. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’
Blake blinked, searching for words. Because, oh, he had forearms. And when he started to knead the dough, his hands worked with a confident, rhythmic pressure that made her blink again.
But it wasn’t just that. It was the way he focused completely on what he was doing, like the dough deserved his full attention. She’d seen that same focus when he’d listened to her at their first date, really listened.
‘I feel like I’m doing this wrong,’ she muttered, poking the flour with suspicion.
‘Here,’ he said, stepping closer. ‘Like this. Press with the heel of your hand, push forward, fold, rotate.’
He moved behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him through her shirt. His fingers guided hers, and for one ridiculous second, she forgot how to breathe.
‘Better?’ he asked, voice low.
Blake nodded mutely. What kind of sorcery was this?
He smiled, then turned back to his own dough, adding water and rolling with steady confidence.
She tried to focus, but her brain was malfunctioning. She was hyperaware of everything: the sandalwood of his cologne, the way he bit his bottom lip when concentrating, the flex of his forearm as he rolled.
‘This feels oddly intimate,’ she said.
‘Is that a complaint?’ he teased.
Blake shot him a look. ‘Careful. You’re dangerously close to being charming.’
‘Dangerously close?’ he echoed. ‘So I’m not there yet?’
She arched a brow. ‘You want a charm rating mid-dough?’
‘Don’t pretend you’re not already grading me.’
Blake smirked. ‘Touché.’
They worked through the steps, rolling, slicing, flour dusting everything. Her white shirt was already smattered in flour, despite the apron.
Then came the sauce station.
They’d been simmering the sugo for twenty minutes, stirring, tasting, adjusting. She held out a spoonful towards him.
He leaned in and blew on it before taking it in one smooth movement.
Blake stilled. Okay. That was definitely something. ‘Decent?’ she asked.
He nodded, licking sauce from the corner of his mouth. ‘Perfect balance. I’m giving it a nine.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Only a nine?’
‘Saving the ten for the tiramisu.’
Then he scooped up another spoonful. ‘Your turn.’
She leaned in. ‘I trust you.’
He started to warn her about the heat, but Blake slurped a full mouthful just as he spoke.
‘Ow. HOT. That’s, shit, hot.’ She fanned her mouth, eyes watering. In her effort to cool down, she knocked the spoon, sending sauce across her apron and onto her shirt.