27. Bolo de laranja
27 /
bolo de laranja
charlie
I expected to feel overwhelmed by being somewhere new, meeting someone I know nothing about because, while I had intended to use the drive to ask Rafael about his grandmother and what I should expect, I ended up spending it writing down every thought and feeling that came over me from the moment I opened my door to find Rafael leaning on it, to the moment he told me I smelled good. I swear, I can still feel the press of his nose on my neck, like he branded me there. I worry that the mark is visible, and yet I want it there, so I’ll never forget that feeling.
No doubt I’ll be up until the early morning hours writing. So many ideas have started forming, the more I understood what it meant to experience someone standing like that, looking the way he looked, with anticipation and maybe a dash of nerves in his eyes. All of it transformed the second he pushed me against the kitchen doorway. Our bodies moved fluidly. I had never fully understood the appeal of a man who simply knows how to be sexy on a whim. It was as if every movement was intentional and rehearsed, but it felt like they were just for me .
Now we sit here, with more food than we could possibly eat in front of us, after his grandmother just called me beautiful while looking at me in a way that should have made me squirm. But her eyes are so kind, so full of love, that it was impossible to do anything but smile. It felt like some sort of understanding passed between us in that moment. In that silence. As if we already knew one another. It’s impossible to explain it as anything other than just a pure and whole connection. Any of the apprehension and nervousness I’d felt had melted away.
“Charlie,” Vó says, though it sounds more like Sharlie. I like it. She points to the food laid out before us, wordlessly asking me to serve myself first. I don’t know where to start, though. Everything looks amazing, but I don’t want to offend this lovely person by not eating something.
“This is bolo de fubá; it’s a cornmeal cake. It’s sort of like cornbread but sweeter. This cheese is a little soft and salty and pairs really well with the goiabada, which is a guava marmalade,” Rafael continues, making his way around the table. “You’ve had p?o de queijo, and this is a tapioca biscuit.” As he finishes, he smiles at me, and I smile back in thanks. His face falls suddenly, and he stands. “I forgot to tell her you don’t like hot coffee. Shit. Shoot. Desculpa, Vó.”
I reach for his arm and wrap my fingers around his wrist. “Raf, it’s fine. I’m good.” He freezes, staring at me unblinkingly before sitting back down. I serve myself all of the things he just described, because they all sound amazing, as his grandmother pours the coffee into small cups for the three of us.
I take a bite of everything as Rafael and his grandmother chat about something that happened yesterday. He had told me they only speak Portuguese with her, but she’s speaking English, and I assume that’s due to my presence. I did attempt to learn a few words in Portuguese, but still, the guilt that they’re having to change this for me doesn’t sit well. I take a sip of the hot coffee without thinking and gasp, forcing the liquid to run down the wrong pipe. I cough, and Rafael’s hand rests on my upper back, concern painted across his face.
“I’m fine. Sorry. I’m fine. Just surprised.” I clear my throat and take another sip of the coffee, closing my eyes. “God, this is good. Mmm.”
Rafael is the one coughing now, and Vó laughs. It’s a lovely sound, her raspy laughter.
“I get it. I see why you do that to your afternoon coffee now. This is fantastic.” I turn to the woman across from me. “Muito bom,” I tell her, then take another sip as she smiles at me once again. “I was just about to say it’s all right if you’d like to speak in Portuguese. I don’t mind.”
“No, you are a guest. But I like that you came prepared with a little Português. Did Rafa teach you?” The way she says his name is wonderful. It sounds like haffa, and her voice changes slightly when she says anything in her native tongue. That natural raspiness in her voice is more pronounced, and she can let her vocal cords do what they’ve always trained to do. When she speaks English, her voice is clearer, but it’s almost unnatural. Not unpleasant, just slightly forced when she has to manipulate her mouth to create sounds it’s not used to.
“I didn’t teach her anything. This is kind of a surprise.” His serious tone unsettles me, my mind immediately racing to wonder whether I’m mispronouncing things, if what I did is insulting, or if he thinks I’m a massive idiot. “A very thoughtful, very sweet surprise,” he adds, yet again reading me with such ease. His hand comes to rest over mine on the table for only a second. In that time span, our eyes lock, and he mouths thank you , and squeezes my fingers in a way that reassures and completely settles me. I don’t understand it, this capacity he has to scramble my every thought and then put them all back together again.
As we eat, we mostly chat about the food in front of us, where it comes from, and the rich history behind so many of the ingredients. Brazilian culture is fascinating, and there’s no amount of late-night internet reading that could ever duplicate the experience of learning about it from someone like Ana Maria.
“Why is the coffee in such a small cup?” I ask, immediately feeling my cheeks heat in embarrassment. I’ve been wanting to ask, but it sounded like such a stupid question in my brain.
“Fantastic question,” Vó says. “Portion control. Imagine a huge cup of coffee with this much sugar? Ai ai ai.”
My eyes snap to Rafael, remembering his coffee cup from the other day. He brings his index finger to his lips in a shushing motion, and I laugh, watching as he starts to do the same.
“Oh, I know all about how my neto drinks his cafézinho by the liter.” She laughs with us, and I fear the coffee isn’t the only thing making me feel warm and buzzed.
After insisting that I was not allowed to help with clean-up, I walk out to Rafael’s car to grab my laptop and the bag he forgot in the trunk. His car is impeccably clean, not unlike his house, and I wonder whether he’s the type of person who organizes his closet by color. I love order but struggle to achieve it, and as a fellow ADHD’er, I guess I’m just waiting to find—holy mother of all doom piles. It’s the trunk. I found it. This is where his mess lives. Ha!
“Wait, red, don’t—” Rafael runs toward me, arms flailing. “Ah, fuck.” His head falls, chin touching his chest as he raises a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s his biggest tell that he’s uncomfortable in some way.
“Finally,” I say as I wave a hand over the dumpster, also known as his trunk. “I found an imperfection!” I walk closer to him, close enough that I can feel his heat, and we’re both standing in front of the evidence of his mess. “I was starting to think maybe you were one of those rare neurodivergent people to always be neat and tidy.” I poke at his chest, and he raises his head, a playful grin now on his face. “But nooooo, you have messes too.” I poke again. “Not so perfect, huh, Professor Machado?” Another poke.
He takes hold of my wrist and pushes me back, so my bum rests on the bumper, his thigh coming to rest between my legs. His other hand snakes around my waist, settling on my lower back and holding me close to him. “Careful, shorty. I like that nickname a little too much.” He leans over me, bringing his lips just below my ear. “And I might be tempted to show you exactly how messy I like to get,” he whispers. His warm breath caresses my neck, and I shiver, even if my skin feels as if it’s on fire.
And then he’s gone. He takes the bag he needed out of the trunk with the hand that was behind me and backs away, leaving me breathless. “Don’t forget your laptop,” he shouts with a wink, and he turns and struts away with all the confidence of a man who just left a woman completely turned on with a few words and a simple touch.
I want to hate how good he is at this, but I’m reaping all of the benefits, so can I really hate it all that much? At all?
This is exactly why I need practice. It can’t be normal to react like this to a person. If this happens with Robert, I’m going to fumble my words or, worse, do something completely embarrassing. I must just be feeling things more extremely because this is so new, this kind of closeness with someone.
It takes a few minutes to collect myself and my laptop. Also, I take a second to take a photo of this trunk, because I never want to forget that he is just a regular neurospicy man who needs a doom pile in order to survive.
Walking back into the house, I hear quiet laughter from the kitchen, followed by a groan. A manly groan. A groan that definitely does not send a shiver up my spine because people making sounds with their throats can’t possibly cause such a reaction, can it? Fact: it can.
“Any other one but this one, Vó. Por favor.” Rafael’s back is to me, but I can see he’s got an apron draped over his front. I walk around to stand next to Ana Maria, and my laptop slips out of my hand when I take in the situation in front of us. Thankfully, I already had it hovering above the countertop, so it lands with a loud clatter, but without any damage. The lovely woman next to me laughs harder.
I take in the apron from top to bottom. The front is covered in a very realistic, very high-definition photo of a man. A naked man. With nothing but a hot dog bun covering the man’s, uh, hot dog.
My hand flies to my lips as I try, but miserably fail, to hide the squeal making its way up my body and out of my mouth. I shake my head, unable to make eye contact with Rafael when he’s wearing something so revealing. And yet not, because, of course, I know that’s not his real body in that photo. It couldn’t be. Could it? The man has a perfectly chiseled six-pack , a smattering of hair on his pecs, and the beginnings of a happy trail hiding behind the bun.
Sensing the multitude of thoughts and questions bumping around in my brain, he steps closer, tying the indecent cover-up at his back and whispering, “The real thing is definitely better.” He walks away, taking ingredients out of the fridge as I do my best not to think about the possibility of that statement being true.
While lost in my thoughts, they set up their tools and ingredients, all while Rafael asks for a different apron several times. His requests are ignored every time.
I set up my laptop on the island, taking a seat for the front-row show I’m about to witness. If just being in the same room as these two is entertaining, I can’t even imagine what watching them cook will be like .
“What are you making today?” I ask no one in particular.
Rafael answers, “Bolo de laranja, which is orange cake.”
I’m supposed to respond with something. I know I am. But my brain is stuck on the way he said the words in Portuguese. He could be saying anything. He could tell me to piss off and I’d like it. I’d ask him to tell me again.
Damn it, what is going on with me? He smells my neck once, and suddenly, I’m like a dog in heat. Pathetic.
I survey the ingredients, of which there aren’t many, and hum. “Sounds delicious.” I open a new document and title it Orange Cake , then set up a spot for ingredients to be listed. The leather notebook I now recognize as one of Rafael’s prized possessions slides into my sightline.
“I figured you might need this if you want to transcribe recipes while we’re prepping or whatever. You don’t have to; I just didn’t want you to be bored or anything.” He presses his lips together as if to keep himself from rambling further. His usual lightness and confidence are gone, and I have an innate need to get them back.
“How could I possibly be bored? I could stare at those abs and that wiener bun if I need something to do.” I look over to Ana Maria, whose smile stretches from ear to ear. She gives me a thumbs-up, and I send one back to her.
Rafael groans again. “Fuck, what have I gotten myself into with you two?” He points at me before picking up a knife and an orange. “I hate that you said that with a perfectly straight face, by the way. That’s bullshit.” He twists his neck to look at his grandmother. “And I’m not apologizing for swearing anymore. Cece isn’t here, and you have the filthiest mind and mouth of any of us.” His face is serious, but there’s no bite to his tone, and the juxtaposition mixed with the apron has a loud laugh bursting out of me. “Well, I suppose wearing the apron is worth it, if it gets me that.” He casually points toward me, watching me with gentle eyes.
My face relaxes into a smile, and the one on his face is brighter than the sun as he peels the orange in his hand deftly, his movements so fluid and natural. I suppose growing up next to orange groves would do that, though. But did he grow up here? Where did he grow up? What’s his middle name?
“Did you grow up here? What’s your middle name?” Damn it, here I go again.
His answering lopsided smirk morphs into a chuckle. “Yes, I did, and it’s Guilherme. What’s yours?”
It feels criminal to gloss over the name Guilherme because, bloody hell, that’s a sexy name.
Are names sexy?
Yes, when they are Rafael Guilherme Machado, the answer is definitely yes.
Focusing back on the conversation, I ask, “You really don’t know?” He frowns and shakes his head. “It’s Maeve. My middle name is Maeve.” I wait for the laughter and ridicule because it is ridiculous that my middle name is my twin’s first name. I know it is. We both hate that Mum did that to us.
His brows furrow for a moment, then he asks, “Is Maeve’s middle name Charlotte?” I pull my lips into a straight line and raise my eyebrows, indicating my yes. He smiles up at me. “That’s really cute. I can’t believe I didn’t know that.” He shakes his head lightly, a chuckle reverberating through him.
“You know what’s not cute? The way you’re peeling those oranges.” Ana Maria takes the fruit and knife out of his hands, shaking her head with no malice in her tone. “Help Charlie get the recipe started. I’ll do this.” She winks at him, and before he can turn away, I catch the immediate blush that rises on his cheeks. An actual blush. From a man named Rafael Guilherme Machado. How is he real?
Rafael takes his time washing his hands and then settles on the stool next to me. “This is a really simple recipe, so I’ll just measure everything as Vó goes along, and you can document it for us?” he asks. I shake my head, and he blanches. “No? Okay, yeah, that’s fine. Uh, how do you wanna—” He stops himself, his eyes locking intently on my lips. I focus on the feeling there, noticing my bottom lip is trapped between my teeth, and I am definitely smiling. “Uh… what… uh…” The way he stumbles over his words is adorable. I release my lip and let my smile loose, watching Rafael’s throat move as he swallows.
“You are such an anomaly, Machado.” His curious brown eyes meet mine for a moment before I look away. “Of course I’ll document it. It’s why I’m here. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got plenty to do here, and I like you better over there where I can see those abs staring at me.” I wave him away with my hand and turn back to my laptop.
Before straightening, Rafael leans in, bringing his lips just behind my ear. “You ever wanna see the real thing; all you have to do is ask, shortcake.” See what I mean? He blushes, stumbles through his words, and then this.
He walks away with a smug smile, clapping his hands together when he’s next to his grandmother, who’s clearly pretending not to watch whatever the hell is going on here.