Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  Ben grunts in reply.

  My eyes turn to his hand as he grabs the syrup. I watch him drown his pancakes in sticky maple sweetness, feeling a tinge of anger that I wasted the good pancakes on him knowing that’s all he’ll taste.

  I read an article called “Fifty Shades of Condiments” that said men who pour syrup over their pancakes and ketchup over their fries are more dominant in bed than men who pour it on the side and dip.

  I grab the syrup and pour it on the side. I’m a dipper.

  Feeling fidgety, I take a quick sip of my lukewarm coffee. My eyes flick to him as he eats.

  He’s a quiet eater who chews with his mouth closed and doesn’t make any weird sounds, so there’s no reason for the army of wood ants to be crawling up my spine, a feeling typically reserved for loud-chewers. Like Mrs. Baker. Or Lindsey from pediatrics, who loved to slurp and chomp on her ramen noodles while telling you about her day.

  My eyes lock on his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Of course, he’s a sexy-swallower.

  The clang of utensils scraping and hitting our plates fills the space around me, adding to my unease.

  I take another sip of my coffee. “So, Rose told me you’re working in Arizona?” There. That’s a totally normal getting-to-know-you question.

  To say it feels odd, having slept in the same bed as this guy when I don’t really know anything about him, is an understatement.

  “Yup,” he grumbles around a bite, briefly catching my eyes before taking a swig of water.

  “You’re a mechanic now, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s cool.” I almost add that my grandpa worked as a mechanic for Ford for thirty-something years, but I don’t.

  “It’s a living,” he shrugs.

  “Why Arizona… I mean, do you have friends there or something?”

  “Got a buddy with a shop in Phoenix.”

  “Cool. I always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.” Silence. “Have you been?”

  “Yeah.” He takes another bite, his eyes on his plate.

  “Did you like it?” Throw me a bone here, dude. I’m trying.

  “It was alright.” His gaze holds mine, and then after a breath he says, “Let me know what I owe you for the medicine and stuff.” His gaze drops to the pancakes.

  My heart sinks with his words. They hurt more than they should. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice.

  His brows raise. “Cover your time too.”

  “You want to pay me for my time?” My voice is flat.

  “Don’t expect you to do that shit for free,” he mumbles.

  I hear you loud and clear. We’re not friends. I get it.

  “You got it, boss.” I give him a cold smile.

  His phone chimes. He brings it out of his pocket, glances at it, and sets it on the table with a heavy sigh.

  His eyes meet mine, and I quickly busy myself with my fork, realizing with a ping of embarrassment that he caught me staring at him.

  “Got people coming at ten.” He waves a forkful of pancake towards me, his eyes glinting with something I can’t name. “Might want to put a shirt on.” He takes the bite.

  My loaded fork, that’s halfway home, freezes at his words. I can’t help but jerk my eyes to my camisole. I’m not wearing a bra. And maybe you can see the outline of my nipples, which I can’t say I like at all, but here’s the thing: I don’t like people telling me what to do more. So, I’m going to sit here pretending my boobs aren’t on full display and eat my burnt freaking pancakes like a champ.

  “My shirt’s fine,” I say, before shoving in a mouthful.

  “Can see your tits,” he says bluntly. His eyes rake over my boobs, driving home his point.

  I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest and instead shoot Ben a go-to-hell glare. And to think I thought I could have a civilized conversation with this Neanderthal.

  I swallow. “Here’s a crazy idea… stop looking.”

  “Kinda hard to miss,” he states, cocking a sharp brow.

  I should have left him for dead.

  I pull in an agitated breath and straighten my shoulders. I was the first of my friends to get boobs, working my way up to a full C-cup by eighth grade. I hated it. Hated the attention. Hated the jokes.

  It’s not even that I have big boobs or anything; they’re just big for my frame, making them stick out. So I spent most of my freshman year in baggy shirts with my shoulders slumped.

  The fact that my shoulders have started to slump forward again causes hot anger to slice through my body.

  I abruptly stand and reach across the table, jerking his plate away from him just as he’s about to load his fork.

  “You don’t deserve my pancakes,” I growl and slide what’s left of his perfect pancakes onto my plate and retake my seat, slamming his plate down in front of him for effect.

  This time he raises both brows at me, pinning me with his stare, his fork in hand. I hold his stare and cock my brow back at him, or at least I think I do. But I’m probably giving him some weird constipated look. Ask me if I care.

  I don’t.

  The sound of the doorbell cuts through the tension. My stomach lurches, and I turn my constipated look toward the living room like I can see through walls.

  It’s ten o’clock already?

  Ben slides his chair back and stands from the table, his menacing gaze locked on mine. I’m pretty sure he uses this exact look to bend even the toughest guys to his will. And if I hadn’t witnessed him nudging my hand like a needy puppy, it might work.

  I snicker with a shake of my head, to show him just how little he affects me and turn back to my plate. I’ve lost my appetite, but I’m committed to licking this plate clean to prove my point.

  I’ll be able to do my makeup in the reflection when I’m done.

  I make a show of stabbing my fork into the pancakes. The sound of my fork scratching the porcelain punctuates my commitment.

  Giving him a smug smirk, I lift my overflowing forkful of syrup-dripping pancakes like it’s a glass of champagne and I’m Leonardo DiCaprio in The Great Gatsby with fireworks shooting off behind me.

  Ben’s eyes narrow in on mine.

  Having a good time, old sport?

  I open my mouth wide enough to bring the overflowing fork home to mama…When suddenly my hand disappears under his firm grip, and I watch helplessly as my pancake-fork turns toward a mouth. Not my mouth. An imposter’s mouth with full lips—full lips that close around my bite.

  My Leonardo DiCaprio-firework bite.

  I’m too stunned to be mad.

  His face is close. Too close. His wicked eyes are holding mine as he pulls the fork clean from his mouth.

  They aren’t angry.

  They’re gloating.

  And cocky.

  Really fucking cocky.

  I glance to his equally cocky lips shining with my syrup. And his cocky jaw as he works the bite and sexy-swallows. Jerk.

  I want to pull my fork from his grip and stab him with it, but I just sit there suddenly fighting the urge to lick his bottom lip. Or suck on it. Or take it between my teeth…

  He releases my hand, but stays in my space, one hand on the table and one on the back of my chair—his eyes pin me to the chair. I ignore the sexual energy that sizzles and pops in the air between us.

  “You have boundary issues,” I say lamely.

  “I got a lot of issues,” he says in a deep syrupy voice that causes my stomach to flutter.

  I shrug. “Well, knowing is half the battle, so…”

  His mouth ticks up on one side, and his eyes drop to my lips and slice back. The flickering heat in them traps my next breath.

  The doorbell chimes in impatient successions. The sound startles air into my lungs. I totally forgot that someone was at the door. If the sudden clench of Ben’s jaw is any indication, he forgot too.

  “Go put a shirt on,” he orders. The heat
in his eyes is replaced by something cold and distant. It happens so fast I wonder if I imagined it all.

  In the next breath, he pushes off the table, runs a sharp hand through his messy hair, and disappears into the living room without a backward glance.

  I set down the fork and look at my plate, wondering if he’s ruined pancakes for me too. Probably.

  A wave of male voices fills the space, mixing with the sound of my thundering heartbeat in my ears.

  I can only make out bits and pieces of what they’re saying. Their questions are followed by Ben’s signature grunt. As they get closer, one of the voices tells him that he looks like shit. I smile at that. Another voice says that some girl named Cindy was “almost in tears” when he left without her the other night and is now stalking Win’s bar. I don’t smile at that one.

  An image of Kate flashes in my mind and the sweet way Ben held her. Maybe with other women, he’s that guy. And with me, he’s this guy. I’m not gonna lie, it bothers me.

  One of the voices draws closer, snapping me from my thoughts.

  I know that voice…

  I stand from the table and try and tame my wild hair, but my fingers are sticky with syrup, so I’m probably making it worse.

  “Is that pancakes?” Winston asks, peeking his head into the kitchen. He walks in when he sees me. His bright hazel eyes quickly take me in.

  A picture of Beetlejuice in his dirty pinstripe suit pops in my mind, and I pray I don’t look that bad.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” he says, flashing me an easy white smile that immediately eases my nerves.

  I’m pretty sure there are a few other adjectives than beautiful that would better describe my current state, but it still makes me feel better that he chose that one.

  He’s wearing a worn gray T-shirt and the same baseball cap. But he’s got a little more scruff on his jaw than before. It looks good on him.

  “Morning,” I say, tugging my camisole down over my lower stomach, wishing I would’ve put a shirt on.

  A threadbare camisole paired with Derek’s so-comfy-I-stole-them flannel pajama bottoms that hang off my hips, and are rolled like a clown to keep them from dragging on the floor, is not my ideal outfit to greet people in. But here I am. I think about excusing myself to change, at least throwing on a shirt, but that would mean Ben won. And we can’t have that now, can we…

  So instead, I motion toward the pancake griddle. “Are you hungry? I have some batter left.”

  “Starving.”

  The boyish enthusiasm in his voice makes a genuine smile break free. My attention turns to the doorway as two other men in lively conversation walk in, followed by a scowling Ben.

  His icy gaze meets mine.

  The talking dies out when the other guys notice me. Or maybe it’s because of the way Ben’s glaring at me. Or the fact I’m glaring back. Let him be pissed.

  “We don’t have time for pancakes,” Ben states. His words are sharp, his eye sharper.

  “There’s always time for pancakes, bro,” Winston chimes in as he takes a seat at the kitchen table and pulls off his hat like a gentleman.

  He’s got some serious hat-head going on, but it just adds to his boyish charm.

  “I have to agree with Win on this one.”

  I turn to the voice to see a guy with thick black-rimmed glasses and dirty blonde hair with a Dapper Dan side part. He’s probably over six feet tall, but the Jason Momoa-sized guy standing next to him makes him look like a pixie. A pixie with colorful tattoos.

  “If you have enough,” Tattoo Guy adds with a crooked smile.

  My heart sputters a beat. I’m too lost in the kaleidoscope of colors marking his arms, too lost in the neon-green peeking up from the collar of his black T-shirt to answer, so I just return his smile with a nod.

  I’m not a huge fan of tattoos. But there’s just something about tattoos on an otherwise clean-cut guy that I find appealing.

  “I’m Nick by the way.” He introduces himself as he walks toward me, his hand outstretched.

  His eyes, which are more yellow than brown, move down my body for a nanosecond before they’re back on mine.

  “I’m Emelia… or Em, or Emmy.” I reach out to shake his hand. His hand is strong, soft, and warm with long, elegant fingers.

  “The future mother of my children,” Winston chimes in from the table.

  Nick glances over his shoulder, then turns his hawk-colored eyes back to me. “He got to you before I even had a chance?” His eyes glitter with wicked amusement.

  “Apparently,” I say while giving Winston a playful smile and wink.

  My eyes catch with Ben’s, and my smile falters from the Arctic frost I see clouding them.

  “You’re breaking my heart.” Nick lets go of my hand with a mock-hurt smirk on his Tom Hardy lips.

  “He used to eat crayons as a kid,” Winston says, looking at me. He holds both his hand up innocently. “Just saying, you might want to give that some thought.”

  Nick scowls over his shoulder. “At least I didn’t eat live ants. That’s some psycho shit right there.”

  “They’re a delicacy in Africa, bro. Read that shit in a book while you were shoveling crayons into your mouth.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Ben grinds out, the vein in his forehead making an appearance.

  Nick stalks toward the table, mumbling something under his breath to Winston. I can’t help but watch him until the space in front of me is filled by the Jason Momoa-sized guy.

  When I say filled; I mean filled.

  He’s a beast of a man with low, sharp brows over crystal blue eyes that are so light in color they glow like a neon sign against his sun-kissed skin. And, honestly, it kind of freaks me out.

  He runs his hand through his wavy brown hair, pushing it back from his forehead and extends it out to me.

  “Jesse.” His voice is gruff and guarded.

  “Nice to meet you, Jesse,” I say as my hand is engulfed in his. His handshake is bone-crushing and mechanical. His penetrating gaze makes my stomach flutter. And not in a good way.

  He nods, holding my eyes for a long heartbeat. I can’t help but feel that he doesn’t like me much. He gives Ben a nod as he walks past with a grunt. Looks like we’ve got another grunter, folks.

  I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that Ben has filled him in on me being the “housekeeper-con artist who took advantage of his Grammy Rose.”

  I wouldn’t like that version of me either.

  Uncle Rick’s voice rings in my mind: “Not everyone’s gonna like you, Em, but not everyone matters.” Logically, I know he’s right. But even so, I’ve never been able to shrug it off when people don’t like me. It’s one of the things I’d thought would change as I got older—I’m still waiting.

  “You guys like chocolate chips or plain?” I ask the table with a bright and cheery smile plastered on my face. A smile put there to piss Ben off. Because I’m super mature like that.

  “Chips, please,” Nick answers, leaning back in my seat.

  A glimmer of metal glitters in front of his white teeth, and I realize his tongue is pierced. I feel my cheeks heat, wondering what he does with that piercing. He grins as if reading my mind.

  “Me too,” Winston says, turning his murderous hazel eyes to Nick.

  I look to Jesse, who nods yes to chips too, as he takes a seat. Still no smile.

  I return his nod, but my smile loses a bit of its luster. I turn the griddle back on and stir the batter, trying to gauge if I’ve got enough for three hungry men.

  A loud thump, followed by a harsh, “What the hell was that for?” from Nick, has me glancing over my shoulder to see Nick rubbing his shin while glaring at Winston who’s glaring back at him from across the table.

  Ben groans, shaking his head. “The movers get here at noon. So try and hurry it up.” He turns to walk into the living room.

  Movers?

  “Movers?” I call out after him, ladle for the batter in my hand.

  He glances
back at me. “For the furniture,” he says like I’m slow.

  Guess I am slow because I still have no clue what he’s talking about. “Why are movers coming for the furniture?” I set down the ladle and face him.

  He turns from the doorway. The shadows under his eyes seem a bit more pronounced than moments before, and I can tell he’s still not feeling that great. I remind myself that he felt good enough to steal my DiCaprio pancake bite though, so…

  “Did you even bother reading the will?”

  I picture the big white envelope Mr. Crawford gave me at Rose’s funeral, sitting on Derek’s table where I left it. Unopened.

  “I, umm… not yet.”

  He shakes his head with a condescending smirk. “She donated all her furniture to some retirement home. And bought new shit. It’s in the will.”

  Bought new shit?

  “Wait, what? Why?” I exclaim, suddenly feeling hot and lightheaded.

  “How the hell should I know?” He’s not yelling at me, but he’s not talking either.

  “Dude,” I hear Winston say softly.

  My eyes are still locked on Ben’s. “This furniture’s been in your family for generations.” I swallow back the painful lump growing in my throat, thinking about all the stories Rose has told me.

  Everything in this house had a story, even the plates.

  Ben pins me with a cold smile that sends a shiver down my back. “So has this house. You know the one you’re going to live in forever. Wasn’t that the agreement you were supposed to give me in writing.” Then he shoots me a look from across the room, that reaches in my lungs, and steals my breath.

  And I realize, it will always come back to this. No amount of vomit-bucket-rinsing or chocolate-pancake-making is going to change how he sees me.

  I’ll always be the sub-human who took advantage of Grammy Rose. His Grammy Rose who raised him. His Grammy Rose who called him Sweet Benny. His Grammy Rose who he loved more.

  He may not know it, he may not care if he does, but he’s ruining me with his words. Tearing me apart piece by piece. The little girl in me wants to cry. To run away. But I won’t. Not from Ben.

  I force oxygen into my lungs and steel my spine. “I don’t want this house.” I throw my arm out, punctuating the lie. “I didn’t ask for any of it.” My voice cracks just a bit at the truth in those words, so I clear my throat. I’m usually a pro at hiding my emotions. Until now. Until Ben. I bite my lip to keep it from trembling, feeling the weight of the table’s eyes on me.