Primrose
“Mm, mm, mmm.” My nails gleam pink and shiny as I tap my fingertips together slightly too gleefully for someone staring into the fridge as I scan the shelves for a dish I’ve been thinking about for the past two hours.
Chocolate torte, dark and sumptuous and it smelled oh-so scrumptious.
An espresso ganache, a hint of amaretto, a smattering of raspberries sitting prettily on top, and a dollop of crème Chantilly to the side.
I really wanted a slice, but I couldn’t eat another morsel after my plat principal.
But it’s now hours, later and I can’t sleep.
Likely because my brain is scarred from the sex-ed theory lesson I’d been forced to give.
I’m allowed to eat my feelings, and I deserve a lil’ sweet treat, I decide as I stare at the contents of the gargantuan fridge.
Do ladies really put it in their mouth? I mean, good Lord. How’s a girl supposed to answer that? Yes, but only if the girl is planning to bite it off? That answer might’ve made for one less blow-job-crazy boy in the world.
Or I could’ve said, Yes, but only on Christmas and birthdays.
Or maybe I should’ve ’fessed up and told him he was asking the wrong person.
Except, that would’ve likely spawned a dozen more questions.
And what if he’d repeated it to M. LDH? He’d probably think I was dropping anvil-sized hints, especially after I’d already (very stupidly) told him I haven’t had sex in eons.
Anyway, enough overthinking. Time for yum-yums.
The food is one of the highlights of this gig.
I’m not usually the kind of person who waxes lyrical about food.
I’m usually happy enough if there’s a cheese and pickle sandwich on offer in the hospital canteen.
There is a very real risk that Zoe’s culinary skills will ruin that simplicity for me. That and my waistline.
Hand still on the fridge door, I make a noise of discontent. Surely, they can’t have eaten the torte already. But then I remember that, at the request of Sylvie, this cake is vegan. So no butter and no cream, save for the sneaky serve on the side. So maybe it isn’t in here.
The kitchen dims as I close the fridge doors and make my way to the end of the kitchen to what Zoe calls the pantry.
It’s not a pantry in the usual sense but a traditional cold storage room.
Cool air hits my face, the interior illuminating as I pull on the door.
Which is also when a celestial choir breaks into song because I’ve spotted my target.
“C?H??O?. Glucose, come to mama.” My whisper sounds awe filled as I reach for the porcelain cake stand it and carry it over to the countertop. It may be vegan, but this cake is not at all virginal. In fact, it is wholly immodest. Dark and moist and chocolately, and it smells so delish.
The recipe is neither traditionally Spanish nor elegantly Parisienne, according to its maker, but something relatively easy to make.
“I’m a dessert slut,” Zoe had said earlier as I’d watched her fold in the flour.
“I like ’em to be quick and easy to make, but they have to taste more than a little filthy. ”
Oh, Zoe, I concur, as I stare at this yummy bit of scrumptiousness that has been singing its siren song all night. And I will be satisfied! I just need a knife and a plate before I face plant into this like Matilda’s mate, Bruce Bogtrotter.
“Yum. Yum. Yum.” I pop my hips left, right, left as I ridiculously dance my way over to the silverware drawer just because I can. It’s late, and it’s dark and there’s no one about. And because I am a secret fan of silent discos for one in my flat’s tiny kitchen.
The draw glides out oh-so smoothly. A fork, I mustn’t forget one of those. I’m not a complete heathen. Oooh, dessert forks. These folks are fancy. Like I didn’t know that already.
I slide the drawer closed, twerking as I drop low before electric sliding over to a nearby drawer for a tea plate.
Back to the cake, I cut myself a generous slice.
Cake slice meets plate before I realize what’s missing.
I almost pirouette to the fridge. Sad face—the cream is gone.
I pull out a can of whipped in its place, the kind with the nozzle.
I dance my way back, shimmying my shoulders as I shake the can.
But when I apply a generous squirt, the can splutters and backfires.
Hell. “It looks like I’ve jizzed all over the place.” I frown at the mess covering the cake, plate, countertop, and my pajama top. And it turns out, I am a heathen as I scoop up the cream-jizz with my finger, sucking it quickly into my mouth.
Fork then meets cake and cake meets…
“Oh my God.” I drop my elbows to the countertop and my head between my shoulders as I roll the ooey-gooey lusciousness around my mouth.
The flavors and textures; it’s flippin’ perfection.
And the second mouthful is as good as the first as I bring my hand down, slapping the marble countertop like a one-handed round of applause.
Sidenote: I think I’ve just worked out what the kids mean when they say this slaps.
This torte is a foodie religious experience, which is probably the reason why H?ndel’s Halleluiah Chorus suddenly comes to mind. My knees begin to move in time with the tempo as I break out in (quiet) song.
“Haaaa-lle-lu-iah!” From twerking to a (not quite) celestial choir, my enjoyment can’t be contained. “Haaaa-lle-lu-iah! Halleluiah! Halleluiah! Ha—Argh!”
My shock echoes in the cavernous kitchen as light goes on in the breakfast nook to my right, and three things happen almost at once:
I spin around.
My heart hits the floor.
And a tiny part of me dies.
That tiny bit would be my self-respect as I stare at M. LDH, my current, too-hot-to-handle boss.
“I… er…”—sound like I’ve been sucking from a helium tank—“I didn’t see you there. When I. When I came in.” Came in, danced about, talked to myself, shook what my mother gave me, then impersonated the world’s most average choir girl.
Bonus, I did all this in pajamas. Not even cute pjs, I silently lament.
Miss-matched—a pink top and orange bottoms—and the T-shirt’s neck is all stretched-out.
The bottoms are no better because they’re more like big knickers thanks to an unfortunate incident with a dryer.
They’re the kind of sleepwear you pack to hang out with your bestie when planning for evenings with takeaway and wine with a little Regina George thrown in.
They’re certainly not the kind of jimjams you want any man to see you in, let alone His Hotness over there.
From his seat at the side of the room, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even laugh.
Looks like the arrogant monsieur is back.
Slunk low in his chair, his hair shines in the glow of the lamp, his elbow and forearm resting on the table, his fingers laced negligently around the base of a fat crystal tumbler.
He’s changed since dinner, his shirt and slacks replaced by linen shorts and a soft-looking T-shirt. It’s as casual as I’ve seen him. Revealing too, as I note his tan, those corded forearms, and the way his sleeves hug his biceps.
My eyes slip lower, and my body experiences a frisson of delight at the sight of his bare legs. Thick thighs. A dappling of dark hair. I’m not even repulsed by his feet, and I’m really not keen on feet.
Like the art hanging in the Paris house, it’s very hard not to stare. But I try, until I realize I’m twirling the fork between my fingers. Again.
The corner of his mouth lifts as though hooked, and I can literally feel color flooding my cheeks because I know what he’s thinking.
“Has anyone ever been murdered by a cake fork?” My question is too bright, my voice too loud.
I fold my arms across my chest and poke myself in the left boob with the tines.
Forking hell! I try not to wince as I set it down and put my elbow to the countertop a little too hard in an attempt to appear casual.
“I hope to never find out, Primevère.”
He sounds very French, and the way he says my name, the French version of my name, with the accent and everything, makes everything south of my waist tingle.
“What happened to the English gent?” In my head, this sounds light-hearted. In the air, it sounds smokier somehow.
“Perhaps I don’t feel very gentlemanly tonight.”
Even the cicadas seemed to fall quiet. And there’s no denying the look in his eye. It feels like that night in Paris all over again, but for the distance between us.
And the door he’ll push me out of in due course.
His fingers twitch against his glass. “Perhaps you should consider that a warning.”
I don’t take his advice, though I know I probably should as I twist back to my slice of torte. It’s strange how I’m no longer hungry, that it’s more like something to do. When the thing I should do is leave. Run. Only, I don’t want to.
“I’ve heard that cake is fun any day of the week,” I say softly.
“So they say.”
I hear his smile rather than see it when the echo of his daughter’s words fails to drag either of us back to our senses.
“Would you a little?” Lord, why did I say that—say it like that? I’m glad of the low light to hide my embarrassment.
“No. But, please, don’t let me stop you.”
Despite my sudden lack of appetite, I dig the spongey goodness with my fork. “Are you sure you don’t want…” I glance back, and my breath disappears, my words along with it as I catch him appreciating my legs. Or maybe my bum. My tiny pjs?
All of the above. The impact of his scrutiny warms me in places it shouldn’t.
“As it happens, I do want.” God, the aching tenor of his voice.
The cake falls from my fork as I turn to face him, my nipples tightening under my pajama shirt because I want too. Just not cake anymore. One beat. Two. I realize he’s giving me a moment. To process. To haul ass. To leave.
“I’d like to ask my question now.”
I give my head a shake thinking I somehow misheard him.
“A question for a question. Was that not the deal?” Something flickers in his expression. Humor, I think. “Not that, at dinner, you asked what I assumed you would.”