Chapter 5 #2
Not only did he buy the largest size of KitchenAid mixer in a pretty blue, but he bought cupcake pans, cookie sheets, mixing bowls, measuring cups, and all the basics I’d need to bake with.
To my surprise, one of the boxes also has groceries: sugar, butter, gel food coloring, several extract flavors, baking chocolate, flour, eggs, milk.
I’m overwhelmed by the sheer number of items now on the counter. And even more by Tank’s thoughtfulness.
“You’re quiet,” he says, and I pick up the phone, retreating to the couch where I don’t have to make eye contact with everything he just bought. “Did I mess up?” he asks.
The only thing he’s messing up is me. I’m starting to get the sense that I’m going to need a six-to-eight-week Tank Graham recovery program to come back from this.
“No,” I say with a sigh. “It’s perfect.” The few things he didn’t buy I can grab from my kitchen across the street. “But you don’t need any of this. Stop pretending that you do.”
“Maybe I’ve always wanted to bake cookies, and now I can.”
“Have you?” I ask.
“Well, no. But baking cookies does sound like fun.”
I groan and drop my head in my hands.
“You don’t sound happy.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. If anything, I’m too grateful. Overgrateful.”
“I’m not sure that’s a thing,” he says with a chuckle.
I want to cry, and I’m not sure if the tears would be happy tears, sad tears, or some jumbled cocktail of tears, like a mixed-drink outpouring of emotion.
“It’s just overwhelming. I’m not used to …” I pause, trying to pinpoint what, exactly, I’m not used to.
It’s not that no one thinks of me. Both John and Chelsea are very thoughtful. Even Mason, whom I’ve known since he and John became best friends in school. I also have the Emilys, who are the best kind of friends—nosy, overinvolved, and faithful.
But this is different.
Maybe because I have this silly little crush. It’s making me feel giddy over things that are just plain kind. I’m overreacting to the thoughtfulness of a man who, so far as I’ve seen, is generous and good to everyone he meets. Not just me.
I’m not special. And this isn’t about anything more than him feeling bad about the air conditioning in his building.
Perhaps he’s worried I’ll sue? But the moment I think it, I know it’s not it.
Even if it’s just a matter of a landlord feeling responsible for his tenant, what I’m not used to is having a man take care of me. A man who isn’t my son or son-in-law.
A very attractive man with the kind of charisma that acts like catnip. Not just on me. I’ve seen the way other women behave around him. Similar to the way I’m acting and feeling now. Giddy and girlish.
Ridiculous, I think. I’m not a girl. And much too old to be all caught up in feelings like this.
I’m trying to figure out how to dig myself out of this conversational quagmire when there’s a noise on the other end of the line.
“Is that a baby?” I ask.
“It is. I’m holding my newest granddaughter, Evangeline, who just woke up. And now it sounds like she’s warming up those pipes.”
Indeed, the fussing I heard to start with builds into solid crying. I can almost picture Tank, holding a tiny baby in those big, muscly arms of his.
The mental image is not helping with my ridiculousness. Because a man who is handsome and thoughtful and kind and funny holding his grandbaby? It’s got to be a felony of some kind. Or the kind of thing you need a license for.
“She might be hungry,” Tank says as the crying escalates into a full-on angry wail. “I should go find her mom. I can’t help you with this particular problem, little Evie.” His voice shifts into something more tender and sweet when he addresses the baby, and there is a firm, sharp tug in my chest.
Oh, my heart.
If I’m trying to build up an immunity to Tank Graham, hearing him speak so sweetly to his grandbaby is the opposite of a cure. Slap on an additional felony charge and lock this man up!
“I should go.” He has to speak up over the sound of the baby’s insistent cries.
Me too. Desperately.
“Thank you again for everything,” I tell him. “I am grateful, even if I’m also a little stubborn.”
“At least you’re self-aware enough to admit it. Enjoy dinner. It should be there soon,” Tank adds, but he sounds a little panicked, his voice practically drowned out by the baby.
Evangeline sure has a set of lungs on her.
We hang up, and I’m left in Tank’s spacious loft with Tank’s abundant new kitchen supplies until there’s a knock on the door and someone delivers Tank’s thoughtful dinner for me.
Forget building up an immunity. I’m beginning to think this affliction is incurable.
A few hours later, I’ve finished the amazing pasta Tank sent for dinner, unpacked and organized all the supplies, and stopped by my place across the street to get clothes and toiletries as well as a few things from my commercial kitchen.
I don’t bring Edna, my sourdough starter, whom I leave in the fridge.
I don’t want to have the extra responsibility of feeding her daily.
“It’ll just be a few days, Edna,” I say as I tuck her into the fridge, because I am the kind of woman who believes in speaking to plants and also to sourdough. “I’ll be back and feed you plenty. Don’t worry.”
I swear, I can imagine her giving me angry eyes. Edna is not a forgiving sort.
Having been in the cool of Tank’s loft for hours, the air in my building is almost suffocating.
I return to his place sweaty on top of the sweat I already sweated earlier, so I take a shower, change into a pajama set Chelsea got me last Christmas, and then spend a few minutes debating.
I could start baking for tomorrow, which would probably be wise.
I could see what streaming services are on the TV and allow myself to be lulled into a vegetative state. Or I could go to bed.
Instead of any of those options, I choose to phone a friend. Or, in this case, friends, plural.
Though after I get the Emilys on the group call and explain the events of the day, I regret my decision not to just go to bed.
“What do you mean you’re staying at Tank Graham’s loft?” Emily asks. “Where is he sleeping? Please tell me he’s also staying there.”
“What kind of prorated rent did he say he would give you?” demands Jacks, ever the practical number-cruncher. “I want to plug in some numbers for your monthly budget.”
I decide to tackle the less stressful of the two topics first. “I’m staying alone. Tank has another house that he’s been sort of slowly moving into, apparently, so he’s staying there.”
That’s what he told me, anyway. I don’t know that I fully believed him. He was a little dodgy as he explained the situation. And it seemed awfully convenient.
“That seems a little too convenient,” Emily says, and I want to laugh. But I also don’t want to admit that I thought the same thing.
“Convenient that the multi-millionaire has multiple homes he can choose to stay in? Sounds pretty normal to me. Though it is nice of him to offer you his place,” she concedes. “He probably just doesn’t want you to sue for damages and lost wages.”
“You’re such a pessimist,” Emily says.
Jacks snorts. “I’m a realist who prefers to deal in data and numbers.
The air conditioning is broken in Rose’s apartment and her business.
This is not only a loss of income but a stressful situation that could cause undue emotional harm.
Depending on what kind of prorated rent he plans to offer you, suing him is always an option. ”
“I’m not going to sue him.”
“You don’t know that yet,” Jacks says. “Look at it this way. It’s hard to calculate what revenue you’re missing out on for every day that your bakery is closed. Actually, we can calculate it to a degree. Let me just pull up the numbers—”
Emily groans. “Step away from the spreadsheets. Just set them down and back away slowly.”
“Is now a good time to tell you that Tank talked to the coffee shop owner and she’s going to let me sell items there? Oh, and he also bought a whole bunch of baking supplies and appliances so I can work out of his kitchen.”
There’s silence from both Emilys for a moment.
Jacks speaks first, after a long and laborious throat clearing. “He did what?”
“Hang on. I’ll show you.” I switch on the video and flip the camera to face out, walking into Tank’s kitchen to show off all the things he bought for me to use. “See? I just unpacked it all tonight. I was too tired to start baking, but I’ll be up early.”
The Emilys haven’t said anything, so I flip the camera back to my face and raise my eyebrows. “Well? What do you think?”
And almost in unison, the two of them say, “I think we need to come visit.”