Wallbanger

Clive and my KitchenAid.

With a strongly worded meow, he came ru

“Did Uncle Euan and Uncle Antonio take good care of you? Huh? Who’s my good boy?” I cooed, dropping him to the floor and grabbing a can of tuna, his treat for behaving while I was gone. Turning now from Clive, who had focused solely on his bowl, my eyes laser-locked on my KitchenAid. I was going to shower, and then I was going to bake. I needed to bake.

An unknown amount of time later—although I will say the sun had set and risen while I floured and stirred—I heard knocking at my door. I’d been baking so long I felt my back creak and squeak as I lifted my head from slicing some of Ina’s Outrageous Brownies. They took a few extra steps, but oh boy, were they worth the trouble. What the hell time was it? I looked around for Clive and didn’t see him.

I shuffled to the door, noticing there was sugar all over the floor, brown and white, and I was performing an accidental soft-shoe dance. There was another knock at the door, more insistent this time.

“Coming!” I shouted, rolling my eyes at the irony. As I raised my hand to open the door, I noticed melted chocolate all over my knuckles. Not one to waste, I gave them a heavenly lick as I opened the door.

There stood Simon, looking exhausted.

“What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be home until—”

“Not supposed to be home until late tonight, I know. I took an earlier flight.” He pushed past me into my apartment.

As I closed the door and turned to face him, I smoothed out my apron a bit, feeling bits of cookie dough clinging to it. “You took an earlier flight.

Why?” I asked, soft-shoeing across the floor to him.

He looked around with an amused grin, noting the piles and piles of cookies, the assorted pies on the windowsills, the aluminum-wrapped bricks of zucchini bread, pumpkin bread, and cranberry orange bread, stacked like the foundation of a house all along the dining table. He gri

“Are you go

Chapter Twenty-One

DUMBSTRUCK, I STOOD with my mouth hanging open as he walked farther into the room to contemplate the baked goods. He shuffled through the sugar and paused to swipe a finger through a bowl lined with melted chocolate. I sighed heavily as I returned to the counter to face him and the music as I removed a ball of dough from another bowl where it was rising.

How did he know? How could he tell? I flipped and kneaded the dough—a fluffy, clingy brioche—feeling my face flame. I thought I’d played it pretty well. I chanced a look up at him as he licked the chocolate from his finger, his eyes growing more concerned as my thoughtful kneading turned into punching. I took my frustration out on the brioche dough as I pondered an O-less life. Dammit.

His finger now clean, he brushed a lock of hair behind my ear as I continued to punch/knead and flip. I winced when he touched me, the glorious image of him perched on top of me impossible to ignore.

“We go

“What is there to talk about? I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Are you delirious from the time change?” I said cheerily, avoiding his eyes as I wondered if I could pull this off. Could I convince him he was crazy one? God damnit, how did he know?

“Nightie Girl, come on. Talk to me,” he prodded, nuzzling into my neck. “If we’re go

“What was that going to be?” he asked calmly, nodding to the dough.

“Brioche. It was going to be brioche,” I answered quickly, my tone frantic.

“I bet it would have been good.”

“It’s a lot of work—almost too much.”

“We could try it again. I’d be glad to help.”

“You don’t know what you’re offering. Do you have any idea how complicated it is? How many steps there are? How long it might take?”

“Good things come to those who wait.”

“Christ, Simon, you have no idea. I want this so badly, probably even more than you.”

“They make croutons out of it, right?”

“Wait, what? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Brioche. It’s like, some kind of bread, isn’t it? Hey, quit banging your head against the counter.” The granite felt cool against my defeated, hot skin, but I banged with less force when I heard the edge of panic in his voice.

He knew, and he was still here. He was here in my kitchen in that blue North Face pull over that made his eyes smoky sapphires and his entire body look cuddly and warm and sexy and virile and kick-me-the-in-head gorgeous. And here I was, covered in honey and raisins, banging my head on the countertop after killing my brioche.

Killing my brioche. What a great name for a— focus, Caroline!

Heart had damn near leapt out of my chest when she saw him at the door. LC was close behind, involuntarily clenching at the sight of him.

Brain had shut down in shock and denial for a moment, but was now analyzing the situation and leaning toward pronouncing him a worthy candidate, noting the time and distance he’d committed to discovering the cause of concern. Backbone straightened now, knowing i

Why. Why. He wants to know why. I examined him between bangs…ahem…and saw he was getting concerned. As was I—my head was really starting to hurt. I was tired, overwhelmed, and underorgasmed. And a touch slaphappy?

After one last bang, I straightened up, then listed a little left. I caught my balance, drew in a breath, and let fly.

“You want to know why?”

“I’d like to. Are you done banging?”

“God bless it, no more banging. Okay, why. Why? Here goes…” I paced in a tight circle, dodging the chocolate chips and pecans that had congregated close to the counter on the floor. I spied Clive in the corner, batting a few walnuts back and forth between his paws. Nuts all over the floor, nuts in my head. Fitting. “Know anything about pizza parlors, Simon?” To his great credit, he listened. He listened as I went on and on, circling the kitchen island as I ranted and raged. I could barely make sense of it myself: “Weinstein…one night…machine gun…It went away!…night off…Jordan Catalano…Not even Clooney!…hiatus…Oprah…lonely…

single…Not even Clooney!…Jason Bourne…almost Clooney…Pink nightie…banging…”

After a while he looked as dizzy I was begi

I made one last pass, this time muttering, “Spanish fairy tale with prawns,” when I tripped over a muffin tin and fell into his arms.

He held me close, breathing me in, kissing my forehead. “Caroline, babe, you gotta tell me what’s going on. The mumbling? It’s cute and all, but we’re not really getting anywhere.” He pressed his hands into the small of my back, holding me in place. I pulled away a little, resisting his embrace, and looked him straight in the eyes.