I squinted at his reply. What? Nobody likes fruit in their cake. Except old people. At Christmastime. It’s like a crime against humanity.
My phone rang almost immediately. Of course it was him. There was no hello or anything. “Crime against humanity?”
“Yes. No cake should have fruit in it. It’s an insult to the cake part.”
He laughed. “Where are you?”
“In the cake aisle at the shop.”
“At the shop?”
“Grocery store. Seriously, American people need to learn Australian. And they don’t even have fruity cakes for sale when it’s not December.”
“Yes, they do.”
“No, there was a petition. All the real cakes, like chocolate and buttercream, decided that fruitcake didn’t qualify as a cake.”
I could hear the smile in his voice. “No?
“Nope. It was decided that fruitcake contained more fruit than cake, therefore it was not eligible.”
“Really?”
“Yep, really. But then it didn’t technically fit into the fruit section either. And the alcohol section certainly didn’t want it.”
“Is this conversation going somewhere?”
“Yes. It’s going back to the chocolate cake section.”
Andrew laughed. “Chocolate cake it is, then.”
“Do you even like cake?”
“Um, not really.”
I stopped walking. “But you said you did.”
“Well, I thought I had to pick one. Like it was a trivia question or, well, I don’t even know.”
“Dear God. You’d pick fruitcake?”
He laughed again. “If I were to pick dessert, it wouldn’t be cake at all. I would choose ice cream. Gelato, actually.”
I turned toward the dairy section. “Now, gelato I can certainly do. What flavour’s your favourite?”
“Is there a right and wrong answer?”
I chuckled into the phone. “Yes. But I’m not telling.”
“Well then, I would choose lemon gelato.”
I stopped walking again. “Seriously? What is it with you and fruit?”
He was still smiling, I could tell. “If you’ve never had lemon gelato, you are surely missing out.”
“Do I need to try it?”
“Absolutely.”
“All right. But if it’s gross, you owe me chocolate cake.”
He laughed. “Deal.”
“And the good stuff. I like mud cake with the ganache. Not some supermarket bought one.”
“You were going to get me a store-bought one.”
“Well, true. But that was before. Anyway, if you don’t cook at home, it’s not like you’d go to a store anyway.”
“I go to the store,” he said defensively. “Just not for… food that requires cooking.”
I laughed. “Well, you’re cooking tonight.”
He groaned. “Really?”
“Yep. What time will you finish work?”
“I’ll get to your place around seven. Is that okay?”
I looked at my watch. It was almost five. “That’s fine.”
“I was hoping you were joking about the cooking thing. I thought…”
“You thought what?”
He cleared his throat. “Oh, never mind. I have to go. I’ll see you tonight.”
The phone offered only silence in my ear. I figured he must have had a co-worker walk in, so I finished my shopping, lemon gelato included, and went home.
At five minutes to seven there was a knock at my door. With the jazz funk album he chose for me playing softly in the background, I opened the door to find Andrew standing there, all fucking gorgeous and smiling. It had been, what? Not even two days since I’d seen him? And he was somehow even better looking than I remembered. I wanted to grab his knitted vest and drag him inside so I could kiss him, but instead, because I had manners, I stepped aside. “Please, come in.”
He walked in and shoved his hands in his pockets like he was nervous. “You’re playing the album I got you.”
“I am.” I closed the door behind him and stepped right in up close, so our lips were almost touching. He smelled fresh-showered and delicious, and I breathed his scent in. “Hello,” I whispered.
He kissed me, and I had to stop myself from pushing him back against the door and kissing him until he couldn’t stand up. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. I pulled my mouth from his, all ragged-breaths and swollen lips, and could offer no more than a one-word sentence. “Dinner.”
Andrew frowned, or possibly pouted. He looked right at my mouth and licked his lips. “We could order in. I’ll pay.”
I laughed and took a step back from him. He was so damn intoxicating. “Tempting. Really fucking tempting, but no. I promised I’d show you how to cook.”
He looked into the kitchen. “You weren’t kidding, were you?”
I shook my head. “No. Why did you think I was joking?”
He blushed from his cheeks right down underneath his collar. It was then I noticed he had showered before he came over. I remembered back to our conversation about dinner tonight and how it evolved into a conversation about rimming…
“Did you think dinner was a euphemism for something else?” I asked.
His eyes flashed to mine, and his voice squeaked. “Um. Maybe?”
“As in dinner would be eating something else? Like arse.”