As though sensing my thoughts, Dante squeezed my shoulder firmly. "No, thank you," he said again, voice slightly less polite than the time before.
She flushed, biting her lip. It was degrading enough that she wanted to wait on him, but the fact that she had to ask him for it had to be a tough pill even for an empty-headed pom-pom girl to swallow. "You don't even need me to clean your uniform for you?"
"Nope. I don't. You're off the hook."
She didn't look happy about that. "What about food? What's your favorite? I'm a great cook."
"I'm all set on food too. I'll make it real easy on you—I don't need anything at all."
She was persistent, I'd give her that. "Not even sweets? You didn't like the cookies?"
That made him hesitate and look down at the plate of cookies he'd clearly been enjoying. "They were great, but you don't need to make me anymore."
"You really thought they were great?" she beamed, flirting right in fucking front of me.
Dante's arm squeezed me tighter. "Yeah, they were great, so thanks, but like I said, I don't need anything else."
She was smiling like she'd gotten what she wanted. "Wait until you try my cupcakes. And my muffins are to die for. Just you wait. I won't disappoint you."
She flounced off.
Dante held me back from going after her.
"What a little whore," I grumbled at her back.
"Stop. C'mon. She's not worth it. Calm down."
I shrugged his arm off and he let me. I glared at him, then at the plate of cookies he still held in his free hand. I knew that he was going to keep eating them. He'd basically been a human garbage disposal for food since we were twelve. He ate everything.
But he seemed particularly keen on these cookies.
I grabbed one, taking a bite. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.
And it was good. Peanut butter, with just the right amount of crunch and chew. I wasn't even a big fan of cookies, but little miss pom-pom's were pretty awesome.
Dante grinned at the look on my face. "She can bake. You have to give her that."
I didn't want to, and I hated the way he said it, like he admired the skill.
I decided right then and there that I would learn how to bake, for the simple reason that I could not stand the thought that Dante might have a need I couldn't fulfill myself.
For a solid month I spent more time with Gram's housekeeper, Mrs. Stewart, than I did with Dante. It drove him crazy, which I saw as icing on the cake. Kind of literally.
Mrs. Stewart was nice and happy to teach. She'd been a trained pastry chef once, but rarely got to practice the skill as Gram liked sweets even less than I did. In fact, she called them evil. I figured it was damage from her Hollywood days, when keeping her figure on point was part of her job.
Mrs. Stewart patiently taught me how to make just about every kind of cookie I could think of, cake, pie, muffins, cream puffs, crème br?lée, chocolate mousse.
The list was large, and though it took me some time to get the hang of it, to understand how exact each instruction and ingredient needed to be perfect, over time I became very good.
A neglected Dante cornered me one afternoon in Gram's pantry when Mrs. Stewart was grocery shopping, and Gram was at a friend's house playing cards.
"I'm busy making macaroons," I told him, warding him off with my hands when he tried to move close.
"You made your point," he said, catching me when I tried to go past him and back into the kitchen. "I won't eat anyone else's cookies." There was a smile in his voice. He was teasing me.
"I'm busy," I said again. My voice came out almost singsong lyrical, like a taunt. I hadn't quite meant it that way, but I wasn't all that sorry.
Teasing him back when he was in this kind of mood rarely disappointed.
"You're not, but you're going to be."
I eyed him insolently. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He crowded me deeper into the walk-in pantry, one step and another, past the long shelves until my shoulders hit the wall at the very back of the room.
"Oh, I think you know. Macaroons are off the menu for today."
"You don't like macaroons?"
"Right now, I hate macaroons."
I bit back a laugh. "Now you hate macaroons?"
"I hate everything you bake if you ignore me to do it."
"Fine, then. You can't have any." I tried to move past him, to leave, but he got in my way, bumping his chest into mine. "Excuse me," I said.
"I don't excuse you," he said, and there was heat in it. Past teasing into outright foreplay.
"Let me out," I ordered.
"No," he taunted back.
"You can't keep me in the pantry forever. What's your plan here?" I renewed my efforts to squeeze past him, rubbing against him in the attempt.
With a groan, he backed me up to the wall again, this time advancing until our bodies were flush, and I could feel beyond a doubt what he wanted to do.
He gripped my ass with both hands, hoisted me up against the wall, and said, sounding nearly out of breath, "I think you can guess."
He slanted his mouth over mine and I was lost.