“I can’t do what you do.”
Since he won’t leave me alone I’ve put him to work. He’s arranging the cupcakes on a tower in tight rows, and when I check his work I’m shocked to find it’s almost as precise as my own would be.
“I’m not so sure that’s true,” I argue grudgingly. “But I definitely can’t do what you can.”
He looks me over with the same interest I showed his handiwork. He does it slowly. Completely. I feel the burn of his scrutiny from my head to my toes.
His voice is heavy cream when he says, “I think you can hit harder than you know.”
I let a silence build between us in reply; an illusory buffer for me to hide behind, because that’s the kind of bravery I’m working with. Little to none. I talk the talk and walk the walk, acting like I’m unaffected by the marvel of a man sharing this space with me, but the truth is I feel it. I feel it everywhere. The vibration of his voice alone sends shivers down my spine in a way that will haunt me tonight, probably most of tomorrow, and that’s not even getting into the size and obvious strength of his body dwarfing mine and this space and the very weight of the world. His beauty is anti-gravity, his eyes bright stars, disorienting and disarming.
I push him out of my mind, firmly planting my feet on the ground and focusing on the little things. The smooth feel of the chocolate coating around the cookies. The chatter of the wait staff just outside our door. The ticking of a clock somewhere nearby. The gentle buzz of a cellphone in Colt’s pocket that he refuses to answer.
“Where’s your other half today?” he asks suddenly, his voice overly loud in the wake of our silence. “Why are you stuck doing this alone?”
“She’s manning the store, and I’m not stuck. I knew I could handle it by myself.”
“Never hurts to have help, though, right?”
I shrug indifferently. “I like doing things for myself.”
“Lucky for you I like doing things for other people.”
“Oh, no,” I laugh. “Don’t act like this is some altruistic thing you’re doing. You’re still trying to score what’s inside that cake.”
He doesn’t deny it or defend himself, but his smile says it all; I’m not wrong and he’s not sorry.
There’s a commotion in the kitchen as the lids to several chaffing dishes come crashing down over their fillings. There are seven of them along the counter, each of them shining chrome that remind me of cars lining up for a race. One by one the members of the wait staff each take a dish and move toward the door leading to the dining room. The blond waitress looks over her shoulder into the pantry as she leaves, seeking Colt out. He lifts two fingers to give her a little salute, making her grin and giggle as she hurries to catch up with her crew. I’m sure it’s the kind of reaction he gets everywhere he goes and the exchange is nothing but another brick in the wall I’m building up against him and his endless charm.
“That food looks good,” Colt says almost sadly, watching it go.
My stomach pinches voraciously in agreement. I flip my wrist to shake the watch out from under my sleeve. It’s nine-forty five. “It’s running late. Brunch was supposed to start at nine-thirty.”
“That’s probably my fault.” He picks up another cupcake, leisurely fitting it into place on the tower. “They might have been waiting for me.”
“You should get out there and eat.”
“Nah, not yet.” He licks a stray bit of frosting from the back of his hand. “We’re not done.”
“Go eat,” I demand, feeling my stomach quiver slightly. It’s hunger, that’s it. Regular old hunger that has nothing to do with his mouth and his tongue.
“When we’re done.”
“It doesn’t matter how long you help me. I’m not telling you what’s inside that cake.”
“You’re the one who keeps bringing it up. I haven’t asked about it in hours.”
“You’ve been in here for ten minutes.”
“It feels longer.”
“You could leave,” I remind him.
“Nah. I like the company. And you do too.”
I hate him for being right. For the fact that I like having him in here. I like the way he smells. I definitely like the way he looks, me and over half of Los Angeles, but what I like the most about him is the conversation. The biting back and forth that doesn’t faze him. If anything my coldness makes him smile, makes him laugh.
I have deeply mixed feelings about that.
Suddenly something sets my stomach off. It gurgles loudly, like a small, feral dog pissed off at the mailman.
Colt pauses to look at me. “Are you hungry?”
I clear my throat, swallowing my embarrassment. “No. I’m fine.”
“Yeah, right.” He puts down a cupcake, stepping up to the pantry door.