He turned the dough over and slapped it, a juicy, ripe sound. “Sexy, eh?”
“It is?” Oh, what a liar I was. I had to keep reminding myself that this was bread-making, not some sort of sensual display for my benefit.
“Yeah. Gorgeous.” Another slap. “All smooth and shiny and alive.”
The phone rang and I grabbed it and turned away to hide my reddening cheeks. “Jo?” Harry’s insinuating voice.
“Yeah.”
“We need to talk.”
“I don’t think so.” I hung up. To Patrick I said, “I hate telemarketers.”
He looked at the clock and then at me, one hand laid on the bread dough. “Right.”
He knew as well as I did that no telemarketer would call at ten in the evening.
I stepped out of his way as he headed over to the sink to rinse out his mixing bowl and clean dough off his hands.
“You look as though you’ve never seen anyone make bread before.” He poured a little oil into the bowl and stroked it around with his fingertips. I shivered. I imagined those fingertips, slick and cool, doing other things. Doing things to me.
“Of course I have. I like to watch people who are good at doing things.”
“I’m competent enough. Like I said, the yeast is the one that does the work.” He tipped the large, creamy mass of dough into the bowl and flipped it around and over, before draping a dampened cloth over the top of the bowl. “And now it’s going to sit here quietly and get busy. Who else is coming to Thanksgiving?”
“Mostly people from the station. Kimberly, maybe with a guy, maybe not. Liz and her husband. Everyone brings some sort of food. It’s fun. If there’s someone you’d like to ask, go ahead, but let me know.” I spread peanut butter on a slice of bread. “I’m on air from six until one, which is why we eat early.”
“You don’t mind working Thanksgiving?”
“No, I like it. People tend to call in with nice comments. It’s the one day they don’t complain. It renews my faith in humanity.”
He looked up from rinsing the spatula he’d used on the dough. “You don’t strike me as a cynic. If anything I’d say you look sort of innocent.”
“I’m not.”
“Innocent doesn’t mean dumb. You trust people. I like that.”
I nodded. I did trust people, perhaps too much. I’d trusted Hugh. I’d trusted Mr. D. And Patrick…was he the next? “But if you don’t trust people, you turn into some sort of paranoid crazy person. I go by my instincts. Sometimes they’re wrong, but more often they’re right.”
He laid the spatula on the drying rack. “And what do your instincts tell you about me?”
“That you just tried to seduce me with a bowlful of bread dough.” I tried to pass it off as a joke, but from the look on his face, neutral, impassive, I couldn’t tell whether I succeeded. I couldn’t tell him that I’d thought of his palm slapping my ass, his fingers smoothing and patting my skin, my sensitive areas.
He grinned. “If I wanted to use bread dough to seduce you, I’d bring you breakfast in bed. The finished product. Something delicious and flaky and sweet.”
“Delicious, flaky and sweet. It sounds like the sort of men in my life, although the flakiness outweighed the other qualities.” I finished my bread and peanut butter. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”
He nodded back, arms folded. I left him there, leaning against the kitchen counter, looking at me with that expression I couldn’t quite read.
I woke the next morning to delicious scents—yeast, sweetness, cinnamon, coffee. It was quite early, far earlier than I usually woke, but I hadn’t drawn the curtains completely closed and light streamed through. Brady lay next to me on the pillow, an inert mass of sleeping fur. As I turned, I heard footsteps on the stairs, and Brady blinked, stretched and sat up, ears pricked.
I remembered Patrick’s last statement to me. Breakfast in bed. My heart hammered and my stomach growled.
Something clinked as the footsteps halted and he knocked at the door.
Brady uncoiled, dropped to the floor and ran to the door, tail aloft. He was no fool. He knew that when people were awake there was a good chance of being fed. He put a paw on the door and eased it open, revealing Patrick and a tray, from which rose delectable scents.
He grinned. “I’m being very forward. I can leave this and go. Or I’ll take it back downstairs. Up to you. No pressure. You look like a woman who doesn’t get breakfast in bed often enough.”
I sat up. “Wow. I’m impressed. That’s really nice. Come on in.” It did cross my mind that a guy bearing a tray of breakfast, a rueful smile and an apology for appearing forward might very well expect to get laid. But I was willing to accept the offer at face value.
Brady, weaving around Patrick’s ankles, was giving the impression that unlike me he’d do anything—anything—for someone who’d feed him, but Patrick lifted him gently out of the way with one foot. “There’s food downstairs, you great dolt,” he said, which I found very endearing.
I scooted over so he could lay the tray on the bed and gestured to him to sit down. I wasn’t about to make a move but I didn’t want him to think I was on the same level as my cat.
He handed me a mug of coffee (he’d brought two, but I put that down to general optimism that he’d be invited in). On the tray was a plate with a gorgeous golden, puffy pastry, oozing butter, studded with raisins, speckled with cinnamon.
“Bread dough tarted up,” he said. “I rolled in pounds of butter and cinnamon and put in some raisins. I hope you like it.”
My mouth full, flakes cascading down my chest, I nodded with enthusiasm. “You’re a genius. It’s wonderful. Were you up all night?”
“No, I slept for an hour or so while the bread rose. I have a business meeting quite early, so I stayed up while it baked.” He reached to pinch off a corner of the pastry.
“It was very sweet of you. Thanks.”
He shrugged, looking a little bashful. “Ah, you’re a nice woman. I’m not saying it’ll happen every day or even every week. Or that I’ll always act the gentleman. I have ulterior motives but I’ll wait until the time is right for you.”
“And how will you know?”
“You’ll tell me.”
“You seem very sure of that.” I broke off another piece of bread. “I don’t know that I want to be finessed into any sort of decision.”
“Then don’t be,” he said easily. “Take this for what it is. I’m interested, you’re interested, but we both know the time isn’t right now. I brought you breakfast in bed, I’m fully clothed and, since I have to leave in five minutes, I intend to stay that way. If I’d arrived wearing only a rose behind my ear and half an hour to spare, I might have had a different agenda. Okay?”
“Only half an hour?” The image of Patrick and his rose made me snort crumbs over the bedclothes. “This was great. Thanks. I hope your meeting goes well.”
“See you later, then.” Coffee cup in hand, he left, and a little later I heard his car door slam and the soft purr as it started.
17
I CONTINUED TO IGNORE HARRY’S CALLS AND I blocked his emails.
I was finished with the Association.
I handled responses for Thanksgiving dinner, I shopped for food, I cleaned the house. You’d never have thought I was once a neophyte in a sex club. Patrick and I circled around each other, friendly, a little flirtatious, both a little too aware of each other. That is, I knew I was. I found myself watching him. I’d look up and find him watching me. Significant moments over the washer/dryer or in the kitchen, or outside when I wheeled my bike out to ride to work, and he just happened to be around.
When I came home in the still frosty air I’d look forward to seeing the lights in his apartment. He rarely came down to greet me. A couple of nights when the temperature plummeted he emailed to ask if I’d like him to drive me home, but I always said no thanks. I liked the solitude, the cold air and my breath steaming in a cloud around me, the hiss of tires
on the bike path. I felt invincible, speeding through the dark.
I took the night before Thanksgiving off, to get an early start on things I’d forget otherwise—collecting napkins, making stuffing and preparing vegetables, because I knew no one would want to bring anything as mundane as steamed green beans.
Patrick wandered down to the kitchen, catching me fisting the turkey, to ask if I needed help. He’d returned from working out and I tried not to sniff the air for male pheromones.
“I invited a guy from the gym,” he said. “I hope that’s okay. We were doing weights at the community center together and got talking.”
“Great. The more the merrier.” I assaulted the turkey with another handful of stuffing.
“He says hi. Says you know him. He’s called Ivan.”
My spoon went clattering to the floor. “What—who?”
“Sorry, I didn’t catch his last name.” He picked the spoon from the floor and examined its dusting of cat hair. “Want me to mop the floor?”
“No, I’ve plenty more time to drop stuff.” I rammed both fists into the turkey to stop my hands shaking.
Ivan. Of course, Ivan. I’d seen him that day at the community center. It wasn’t a coincidence, surely. I was such an idiot. If I’d returned Harry’s phone calls I’d know what was going on. I wouldn’t be a mess because Patrick had invited someone who was probably a regular at the gym where they both exercised, and be jumping to all sorts of weird conspiracy theories.
I removed my hands from the turkey. Ugh.
Patrick grinned and turned on the faucet for me. “I—I have to make a phone call,” I muttered, wiping my wet hands on my jeans after a quick wash. “Back soon.”
I ran upstairs and found Harry’s number. He answered, to my great relief.
“Hi, Jo, how are you? We’ve missed you.”
His friendly tone put me at ease. “Sorry, I’ve been really hard to get hold of. I—”
“I’d love to chat but we have family over, so let’s talk business next week, okay? Have a great Thanksgiving.”
Well. More games, it appeared. I clicked the phone off and went downstairs to find Patrick sewing up the turkey like a seasoned surgeon, the table more or less clean, and Brady eating something small and bloody on the floor.
“What’s he got?” I shrieked.
“I gave him a bit of the liver. I’ve got the rest on the stove for stock.”
“For Christ’s sake, will you stop playing fucking superchef in my kitchen!” I was shaking with rage. I stomped over to the range and looked at the stock he’d started—very professional, turkey flotsam, bay leaves and celery and crushed peppercorns—and wanted to fling it across the kitchen.
Patrick walked out without a word. I heard his footsteps going up the stairs and across to his apartment.
I shoved the turkey into the refrigerator and tidied up in a minor sort of way. I turned the stock off and put the pan into the refrigerator, stepping over the bloody smears Brady’s treat left on the floor.
Patrick heard the roaring sound that indicated water running in the house and guessed Jo was taking a bath.
He tried not to think of her naked.
He was an idiot. He should have put off that meeting and got into bed with her last week instead of playing the jolly baker. Was he flattering himself in thinking that her bad temper was caused by horniness? More likely it was mysterious female hormones, nervousness about having a houseful of guests, any number of things. He’d told her he was waiting for her to give the go-ahead, which had seemed logical and chivalrous and all the rest of it at the time, but also left open the possibility that she wasn’t interested and might never summon him to her bed.
Except she was. He knew she was.
Gloomily he tapped a computer to life and opened what he referred to privately as the wank menu. It was the sort of thing guys joked about in bars. On more than one occasion Patrick had found himself giving advice about how to clear a cache or partition the computer in case wives or girlfriends snooped around.
He unzipped just as the door creaked open—Christ, that cat was strong—and Brady, defender of public and private morals, stalked in, eyes full of reproach.
“Christ,” Patrick muttered, tucking himself away, zipping up, horribly embarrassed. He didn’t honestly think he’d have to lock the door first, not with the atmosphere in the house as it was.
Brady fell over in front of him and flopped his tail on the carpet.
“What do you want?” Patrick said. “I expect she fixed you, so there’s no wanking for you, boyo. Or did she give you a bollocking, too?”
Brady rolled onto his feet, walked across the room and deposited himself onto Patrick’s bed, staring at him with those big yellow eyes.
“Go on, make yourself at home.” Patrick switched off the computer. “You’ve persuaded me. I’ll have a cup of tea instead.”
Despite my anxiety about the Association and Ivan’s presence later that day, I got up early with the usual sense of anticipation of a Thanksgiving Day—great food, friends, conversation and the quiet of a late-night shift to end the festivities. I hauled the enormous turkey out of the refrigerator and set it in the oven and made myself coffee. It was too early to call home, but I checked activities on Facebook, my laptop on my knees as I sat in the window seat. It was still dark. No sign of Patrick other than his foil-wrapped loaves laid on the counter to thaw, and all over again I felt bad about snapping at him the night before.
Brady wandered into the kitchen and jumped onto my lap. I stroked his fur and wondered what I should do about Patrick, and when, and if…and about the foreskin-enhanced dick with the Kimberly seal of approval. How annoying of him, walking into my bedroom and announcing he had five minutes; and he’d looked pretty good. But then a man serving you breakfast in bed always did.
The outside door to the apartment opened and closed and I heard Patrick’s footsteps on the steps and then on the drive. I lifted the blind. It was a little lighter now, and I could see Patrick stretching, one foot on the step, the other leg straight. Oh, nice buns, I thought, and then I let the blind go in case he’d caught me ogling him. It snapped against the window and I was sure he would have heard.
I set the kitchen timer to remind me to baste in half an hour, and stretched out on the window seat. Brady joined me, purring and reeking of cat food. Hours to go, the house quiet and warm and filling with the scents of good food. Later, when I was about to serve the turkey, things would get frantic as I juggled gravy and serving dishes. But now I could savor the moment and anticipate the day.
People started arriving at about two for a dinner scheduled to start an hour later. Those who wanted to watch the game could drift away in the living room with plates of food, or take their place at the dining room table, augmented with a couple of card tables. It was a room I rarely used except when large groups of people were expected.
Kimberly arrived alone, to my disappointment, bearing a bowl of her relish and a huge sheaf of flowers for me. Liz and her husband brought desserts. Others came with side dishes, wine, beer, soda.
Patrick arrived in the kitchen, sliced his bread and arranged it in a basket covered with a cloth. He spread a slice with butter and offered it to me.
“I’m sorry I was a bitch,” I said to him.
“That’s okay.” He watched as I bit into the bread.
“Great bread. Shall I warm it?”
“Jo!”
Oh, no. It was Ivan, bearing down on me. I hadn’t even heard him come in, but at this point the front door was probably unlocked.
He placed a casserole dish and a bottle of wine on the counter and slipped his arm around my waist and kissed me on the lips. “You look gorgeous.”
“Thanks.” I handed him the corkscrew. “Help yourself. I’ve got to—”
“Thanks for inviting me,” Ivan said. His arm was around my waist again. He clapped Patrick on the shoulder. “Or rather, thanks to Patrick. Jo and I go way back.”
“S
ort of.” I dodged away from him. “Great to see you again. Do you want to go watch the game?”
“I’d rather stay with you and help. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
Precisely what I wanted to avoid.
“Jo was about to put me to work,” Patrick said. “You know what they say about too many cooks.”
Kimberly came back into the kitchen. “I need a bigger vase.” She smiled winningly at Ivan and introduced herself. “You’re real tall. Can you fetch me a vase from the top shelf of that cabinet?”
I whispered in her ear as Ivan reached into the cabinet, “Do me a favor. Keep him occupied.”
“Gladly.” Sure enough, Kimberly moved in on her prey. “Wow, you sure are tall. And look at those muscles.” She felt the merchandise as she spoke. “Now, I know what a big handsome guy like you is really good at. Flower arranging. You come with me, sugar, and bring that lovely vase with you.”
To my amusement Ivan allowed himself to be led out of the kitchen.
Patrick looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Little did I realize I’d be inviting a rival.”
“You didn’t. He’s full of himself. I don’t know him that well.” Not the smartest thing to say—now Patrick would think I let guys I didn’t know very well take all sorts of liberties with me. “We have about ten minutes before it gets insane. I’m going to change.”
He nodded. He was as formally dressed as I’d ever seen him, in slacks and a shirt. No tie. He looked good. I loved the way the slacks draped around his— I tore myself away from contemplation of his package and ran upstairs. I hadn’t put much thought into what I’d wear, and grabbed a silk tunic that fell to my knees, dark red with gold embroidery. “I used to have a dress like that in 1969,” my mom had said when she’d seen it. I’d talked to her and the Great Abe before my guests had arrived and was very slightly homesick, and jealous of the foot of snow they already had there.
Black tights, dangly gold earrings, a quick ruffle of my hair and I was ready to go.
Tell Me More Page 19
