Dingo growled one of those throaty growls that can be the prelude to springing into action. Shit. He was afraid to move for fear she’d take that as a sign of his aggression. What could he do to stop her? That’s when he remembered he’d stuffed a macaron he’d been eating in his pocket when Justine went off on her tangent and insulted him at the reception. He’d stormed off with no place to set it down. He reached slowly into his pocket and pulled out the now-crushed macaron and carefully crumbled a bit into his hand. First he tossed a few Scooby Snacks onto the floor between him and the dog. And thankfully Dingo responded like any self-respecting dog would, scarfing up the bits then wagging her tail for more.
“What a good girl you are,” Fletcher said in a quiet voice. “You want some more cookie?” He carefully reached his hand out, fingers tucked in, to give her a chance to sniff him. Her nose nudged at his closed fingers and he gingerly opened them, allowing her to get the hidden treats inside. Quickly, he crumbled the rest of the macaron and hand-fed it to his new best friend as she wagged her tail and licked the remnants of the cookie.
“All I know is it’s a damn good thing I’m not a burglar.” He stroked her head. “Because you just failed simple Dog 101 there, my friend. And I didn’t even have to invest in a good piece of raw steak to succeed. Lucky for me.”
“Lucky indeed, or you’d have been shredded into a thousand pieces all over the floor of my lovely little pastry shop.”
Fletcher turned to see Cricket standing behind him, her arms crossed as she tapped her toe at her failed guard dog. “Who’s my best girl?” She said in a high, squeaky, dog-mom voice as she bent over and Dingo came running toward her, promptly flipping onto her back for belly rubs. Cricket leaned over as the dog licked her face.
Fletcher turned and walked toward them both, watching the joy on their faces as they reunited after being apart for the evening. Man’s best friend indeed.
Finally Cricket stood and faced Fletcher. “I’m sorry about what she did to you tonight.”
For a minute Fletch stood there lost in thought, one hand scrubbing along his chest, the other tucked behind the nape of his neck. At last he opened his mouth to speak.
“I suppose you could say I had it coming to me.” He shook his head. “I kept thinking I could work around her bullshit, but there’s no working around her. This woman is playing a dirty game of chess and she’s not above doing anything to win. Her profession is evidently a blood sport of sorts, and we’re all pawns in a game we didn’t even realize we’re playing. If I had been smart, I’d have quit the job the first day she started trying to get at me. But I was too afraid I’d have to slink back home with nothing to show for my efforts. Only thing I’d have succeeded at was breaking us up and gumming up any potential career as an actor.” He frowned.
“You know you can always come up with a new plan.”
“Yeah but who wants to start over like I’d have to?”
“Maybe you wouldn’t start over altogether. Maybe you need to reconsider your entrée into the entertainment industry.”
“You mean instead of porn star, which it seems is what Justine would choose for me?”
Cricket laughed. “Well, you do have some impressive moves that might skyrocket you to fame and fortune there.”
“You’re saying that to make me feel good.”
She shook her head. “You did all that to make me feel good. Turnabout’s fair play.”
Fletcher reached out to pull her into a hug. “You know the pleasure was all mine.”
She shook her head. “I beg to differ—I got a large chunk of that pleasure, thanks to you. Maybe we can call it a draw since we both seemed to come out ahead.”
“Deal,” he said. “Though I wouldn’t object to a lightning round in case we need to prove a winner.”
She laughed. “Oh, honey, I think that was already a lightning round, judging by the flashes of light I saw behind my eyes when you did that thing—”
He held up his hands. “I know you said you’ve got a lot of work to do, so we’d better change the subject or I might be inclined to take you right here on one of these rickety café tables.”
“With all of these big windows here, that might be contraindicated unless we want to put on a show for Bristol.”
“I think what you’ve done here is show enough for everyone in town.” He pointed at the display cases of pastries in front of them. “You know I never got a close-up of your beautiful handiwork when I was here yesterday,” he said, eyeing the incredible selection. “I’m no expert, but they look like fucking amazing pastries.”
Cricket smiled. “If you’d like to hear what you’re looking at, say the word. I love to talk about my pastries—they’re like my children in a way. Only less disobedient.”
He thrust out his lower lip. “Remember how we used to talk about one day when we had children together?”
She frowned. “Yeah. Although nothing personal, but I’ve tried since then to block that from my memories.”
He reached for her hand and held it, palm up. Pressing his fingertip to the surface of her palm, he slowly traced a spiraling trail.
“What’re you doing?”
Her breathing accelerated; she must have liked it. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but it felt right. And he remembered that this was an erogenous zone for Cricket, so there was that.
“I wanted to have some contact with your skin. Something you’d view as harmless but nonetheless tactile.”
“O-kay...”
“So talk to me about your children here.” He pointed to the cases filled with shiny, colorful, tasty treats.
She smiled. “While it’s not Rebecca and James and Samantha—”
“Sammy.”
“Yeah, well, that was yet to be determined, the last I heard.” He nodded. “These aren’t my flesh and blood, per se, but they are a labor of love nonetheless.” She pointed to the case nearest the door. “Over there, I’ve got the usual suspects: tart au citron, pain au chocolate, Paris-Brest, gateau, and éclairs.” She pointed to the center case. “There you’ll find mille-feuille, and macarons. There are nougat macaron and kiwi and orange canelle, but the raspberry’s my favorite. Then there’s a plaisir sucré—which means sugar pleasure.”
“I hear the French know all about pleasure.”
She rolled her eyes. “If my memory serves, you weren’t completely ignorant to that yourself. But I digress.” She pointed to the next row of pastries. “Over there you’ll find the petit kouign-amann, the financiers, the tarte tatin, tarte aux fraises or framboises or citron, the Saint-Honoré, and the canelé. And to drink, we offer such French classics as café au lait or chocolat chaud.
“I never thought I’d live to see such decadence in our little town,” he said. “But I like it. By the way, I find it incredibly sexy when you speak French.”
“Mais oui,” she said, grinning.
“Talk dirty to me in French,” he said, pulling her closer to him, their hands clasped.
“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?”
“That’s from a song,” he said.
She nodded. “It also seems to be an anthem to my new carefree attitude. I mean, look at me—I went from loathing you to fucking you in a matter of hours, right? I was so worried it was a bad idea, but now I see that I can enjoy just having sex with you without tangling it up with old emotions. I realize it falls under the category of ‘fun while it lasts,’ but the truth is, I haven’t had any fun like this in such a long time, I’m totally up for indulging if it feels as good as it felt back there.” She pointed down the street toward the theater.
And while Fletcher wasn’t convinced they no longer harbored more intense feelings for one another, for the time being he’d take what he could get from Cricket, ferocious dog and all.
Chapter Twelve
“So does that mean you would be willing to do it on the shop floor?” He grinned. “A man can hope, right?”
“I’m not ready to put on a show for all
of Bristol. But the good news is”—she pointed to a door that led to the staircase to her apartment—“privacy is a mere flight of stairs away.”
“Would it be asking too much if I grab a pastry or two to replenish my energy stores?”
“Be my guest. Après vous.” She motioned to the case and grabbed a few plates to place them on.
He moaned. “I told you your speaking French is an incredible turn-on.”
“Well then, choose something and hurry up so I can put my linguistic skills to work.”
He arched a brow. “If that involves your tongue, I’m on it.”
As he reached for something, he held up a cup for her to identify: inside was something creamy with chocolate.
“Mousse au chocolat,” she said as he licked his lips. “Grab two of them.”
Next he held up a layered pastry of cake, nuts, candy, and chocolate with chocolate whipped cream topping. “I believe you called this sugar pleasure, two of my favorite things.”
She nodded. “Ahhh... Plaisir sucré. A good choice—dacquoise cake with hazelnuts, praline, and milk chocolate.”
Finally he held up a palm-sized tart. “One of my favorites,” she said. “Tarte aux citron. Filled with lemon curd, which makes me happy.”
“If it makes you happy, it makes me even happier. Now come on.” He reached for her hand as he balanced a plate filled with pastries in the other. “There’s sugar pleasure to be had.”
She led him up the flight of steps, with Dingo on his heels. Luckily the dog had abandoned her suspicions of the man and was willing to follow him anywhere for food. Such a girl after her own heart.
They got to the top step and Cricket opened the door to reveal a warm, cozy living room with cheery lemon-colored walls and an overstuffed sofa in porcelain blue. The wide-planked oak hardwood floors were finished in a warm umber. In one corner stood a fireplace with an oak mantle. A pair of French doors opened to a small balcony with an Italian tile-topped wrought iron table.
“Wow,” Fletch said. “All yours? So grown up. I’m still living in a shitty furnished studio apartment which comes with complimentary cockroaches.”
“The worst kind of roommates.”
“Tell me about it.”
She went to the sofa and sat down, patting the seat next to her. Fletch placed the sweets on the coffee table in front of them. “It’s funny, but you and I never were roommates despite being together so long.”
“My loss.”
She nodded. “Not gonna argue with you.”
“Have you had interesting roomies?”
She rolled her eyes. “In Paris, I roomed with a man who went clubbing each night till four in the morning.”
His eyes widened. “You roomed with a man? A complete stranger?”
“It wasn’t cheap living in Paris. I had to find a way to make it work. I found a guy online and he seemed fine enough.”
“Was he in the program with you?”
She shook her head. “Actually, he was a model and kept crazy hours and barely ate a thing. On weekends when I’d be in the apartment practicing my cooking, I tried so hard to encourage him to sample my goods, but he couldn’t eat because of his job.”
“I thought that was a female model thing.”
“Nope, guys too.”
“So did you and he...” He twisted his pointer and middle fingers together in an apparent international sign of having sex.
“Is that what men think? That if a woman is living with a man, she has to be his concubine or something?”
“Concubine? Yeah, like right out of Lawrence of Arabia.”
“It seems to me that if I were a guy living with an attractive woman, it wouldn’t take long for me to want to do her.”
“Spoken like a true guy.”
“Maybe because I am a true guy.”
“It didn’t cross my mind to have sex with him, but it was a moot point since he was gay.”
Fletch heaved a sigh of relief. It didn’t escape Cricket’s observations how oddly possessive he was for a man who’d chosen to end their relationship of his own accord.
“While you’re mulling the myriad possibilities of me having roommate sex with strange men, why don’t you try some of these pastries. Maybe it’ll get your mind off of it.”
Though to be honest she enjoyed that it must have bothered him. Serves him right.
He took a bite of the plaisir sucré and let out a moan. “Holy shit, is that good,” he said between mouthfuls. “Sugar and pleasure all wrapped up in one. I know only one thing that could make it better.” He raised an eyebrow at her, but instead, she handed him the lemon tart.
“Try this and tell me what you think.”
Fletcher sank his teeth into the buttery pastry. There was something about lemon curd that satisfied the deepest hunger pangs in her. It was always her test of someone to see if they, too, felt as passionately about it.
He stopped midbite and looked at her, then crooked his finger to coax her to him. When their faces were inches apart, he leaned over to kiss her, his mouth still nursing the lemon tart. That cunning man. It didn’t bother her for a second that he decided to share the tarte au citron in a most unconventional way.
Their tongues twined over the tangy, sweet, salty combination and it gave Cricket pause to realize he couldn’t have responded in a better way to her offering.
Eventually their lips parted as they came up for air.
“You know most people would have offered up a forkful of that rather than sharing it off their tongue.”
He grinned. “Since when have I been most people, Crick?”
“Yeah, good point. I can’t wait to see how imaginative you might get with the mousse au chocolat.” She winked at him.
“Expect the unexpected.” He reached for her hand and clasped it in his, covering his other hand over it as well.
They sat for a few minutes in silence, the sound of Dingo snoring the only thing to break the quietude.
“So was it worth it?”
He looked at her, puzzlement in his eyes.
“What we did back there?” He pointed in the direction of the theater.
She blurted out a laugh. “Of course not. That was totally worth it. Especially since this is no-strings, all-fun, no-worries week. I meant you’re up and going to LA: severing ties, moving away, ending us.”
He frowned. “That’s not an easy question to answer. I mean, did I need to try it out?” He shrugged. “I suppose I did. Otherwise I’d never have done something as dramatic as ending us.” He pulled her closer. “Do I regret that now?” He looked down at her and kissed her forehead gently. “More than you can imagine. But life is all about choices and decisions and sometimes they end up being shitty ones and you’re stuck living with the consequences for the rest of your life.”
She nodded slowly. “Or sometimes you take action based on the shitty decisions of others and carve out a new life for yourself that is if not better, then at least more inventive than the one you’d imagined.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “If this were a competition, I’d have to admit you won, hands down.”
“We’re not in a race, Fletch,” she said, twirling her finger in the hair on his arm. “Maybe you’re a late bloomer with this career thing.”
He pouted. “Or maybe I gave it a try and it wasn’t what I’d expected it to be.”
“Did you have many chances to act in LA?”
He shook his head. “I gave it a shot. Let’s say I waited a lot of tables.” They both laughed. “But I did take a couple of screenwriting classes and if anything, that’s been the most interesting aspect of this business to me.”
“You’re writing things now?” She considered that for a moment. “That makes sense now that I think about it. You always were a gifted writer.”
“Thanks. I guess I had enough freelance gigs under my belt to make me feel like a legitimate writer before I pulled an about-face and tried to plunge into acting.”
“You make it so
und like you were impulsive in your decision to do that.”
Dingo hopped up to join them on the sofa and he reached over to scratch her head. “And dog makes three?”
“You’d be surprised how much a dog can warm you up on a cold, lonely night.”
“Fair enough.”
“So have you had a lot of other women?”
“I’m not sure ‘had’ is the correct verb. It sounds a little conqueror-like, as if I colonized women along the way.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m not. To be honest, I’ve dated on and off a little here and there, but there’s been no one special in my life.” He paused, looking at her. “Would it sound trite if I said no one matched your high standards?”
“Trying to earn brownie points?”
“Would it be foolish if I were?”
“Foolish? No. Unnecessary? Absolutely. Water under the bridge at this point. Now it’s all about superficial sex, minus emotions and all of that messy stuff. So technically it’s irrelevant. I’m no more entitled to be upset about who you’ve been with and what you’ve done than you are about me.”
“So you’ve had other lovers?”
She laughed. “Such a very French way of phrasing that. You sure you weren’t the one who lived in Paris?”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“Touché. Okay, so were there other ‘lovers’?” She made air quotes to tease him.
“I’m not sure I want to know.”
“There was a time when I went out with guys and even slept with them for my own little emotional revenge. I know that sounds childish of me. But I guess I adopted an ‘I’ll show him’ attitude.”
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