“And now?”
“And now what? Back to reality. What time does your flight get in tomorrow?” I asked.
“Late. Really late. Should I call you or . . .” He left off, seeming to ask me if he should come over.
“Call me when you get in, no matter what time, okay?” I replied, sipping my coffee and watching the ocean. He was quiet now, and this time when I bit down on my lip it was to keep from crying.
I had packed early, so when the driver got here, I was ready to go. Simon had tried to tempt me to join him in the shower, but I begged off, making an excuse about finding my passport. I was panicking and pulling away just when we’d been getting so close, but this had really thrown me for a loop.
I had put all my Os in one basket, and the problem wasn’t Simon. It was me. The sex had been unreal, amazing, perfection even with a condom on, and yet, still, no O.
Simon walked my bags out to the car and placed them in the trunk. After speaking to the driver for a moment, he came back to me as I walked through the house one last time. It truly had been a fairy tale, and I had enjoyed every moment.
“Time to go?” I asked, leaning back against him when he approached me at the terrace railing. I was glad for the feel of him against me.
“Time to go. You have everything you need?”
“I think so. I wish I could figure out a way to get some of those prawns home, though.” I laughed, and he snorted into my hair.
“I think we can find something at home that will be suitable. Maybe we can have the others over next weekend and re-create some of the stuff we ate here?”
I turned to face him. “Make our debut?” I grinned.
“Yeah, sure. I mean, if you want to,” he added sheepishly, looking at me carefully.
“I do,” I answered. And I did. Even without the stupid, blessed O, I wanted to be with Simon.
“Okay, debut over prawns. That sounds weird.”
I laughed as he hugged me to him. The driver honked, and we shuffled toward the car.
“I’ll call you when I’m back, okay?” he said.
“I’ll be there. Get some good work done,” I instructed.
He brushed my hair back from my face and leaned in to kiss me once more.
“ ’Bye, Caroline.”
“ ’Bye, Simon.” I got in the car. And drove away from the fairy tale.
Once I was ensconced in my first-class seat, I had nothing but hours to contemplate. Strike that. I had nothing but hours to sit and stew and grumble. I’d cried in the car on the way to the airport, trying all the while to assure the driver I was fine and not stone-cold crazy. I cried because, well, there was sure as shit a lot of tension in my body, and it had to come out some way. And so it did, through my eyeballs. I was sad, and I was frustrated. Now I was done crying.
I tried to read. I’d stocked up on trashy magazines in the airport in Málaga. As I paged through them, titles of articles jumped out at me:
“How to Know If You’re Having the Best Orgasm You Can Have”
“Kegel Your Way to Multiples”
“New Weight Loss Plan: Orgasm Your Way to a Thinner You!”
Lower Caroline, Brain, Backbone, Heart were all lined up and throwing stones at Nerves, who was trying her best to hide.
I slammed down all my new magazines, throwing them into the seatback in front of me. I grabbed my laptop, powered it up, and put in my earbuds. I’d loaded up on some movies before the last flight. I could let my brain escape into a film. Yes, I could do that. I scrolled through some of the movies I had on file . . . When Harry Met Sally? Nope, not with that scene in the deli. Top Gun? Nope, that scene where they do it, and it’s all lit blue with the breeze blowing through the gauzy curtains. No, too close to my fairy tale.
I found a movie I could safely watch, took three Tylenol PM, and was asleep before Luke learned how to use his lightsaber.
Somewhere between the connection at LaGuardia and the flight across the Unites States, I downshifted from sad to mad. I’d caught up on my sleep, was done with the crying bullshit, and now I was good and mad. And on a plane, where pacing was discouraged. I had to stay in my seat and try to rationalize what to do with this anger—and how I was going to live my entire life with no hope of an O. And again, overly dramatic? Perhaps, but with no O in sight, it’s easy to have tunnel vision.
Finally, we touched down at SFO and as I followed the crowd to baggage claim, physically and emotionally exhausted, I looked up into the face of someone I never wanted to see again.
Cory Weinstein. That machine-gun fucker.
Plastered across the newsstand was his stupid face in a giant ad campaign for Slice o’ Love Pizza Parlors. I stood in front of his giant head, which wore the biggest shit-eating grin as he posed with a giant pepperoni slice, and my anger bubbled over. It now had a face. My anger had a face, and it was a stupid face. I wanted to punch it in the face, but it was only a picture.
Unfortunately, that didn’t stop me.
Not a smart thing to do, have a fit in an international airport. Turns out they frown on that. So after a strongly worded warning from TSA, and a promise that I would never attack a poster again, I packed myself into a cab, stinking of airplane, and went back to my apartment. I kicked my own door this time, and as I threw my bags down, I saw the only two things that could make me smile.
Clive and my KitchenAid.
With a strongly worded meow, he came running to me, actually jumping into my arms and showing the affection he reserved for moments exactly like these. Somehow his little cat brain knew I needed it, and he lavished attention on me as only he could. Shaking his tail and purring incessantly, he butted his head up under my chin and wrapped his big paws around my neck, giving me a tiny kitty hug. Laughing into his fur, I held him close. It was good to be home.
“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 grinned once more, then turned to me, picking a raisin off my forehead that I didn’t even know was stuck there.
“Are you gonna tell me why you faked it?”
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 paus
ed 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 gonna talk about this?” he asked quietly, dipping his nose to my neck. I leaned into his body for a scant second, then caught myself.
“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? Goddamnit, how did he know?
“Nightie Girl, come on. Talk to me,” he prodded, nuzzling into my neck. “If we’re gonna do this, we need to talk to each other.”
Talk? Sure, I could talk. He should probably know what he was in for with me, doomed to wander the planet without an O for the rest of my life. I picked up the dough one more time and threw it against the wall. It dripped and rolled down, sticky like those creepy crawly things I used to play with as a kid. I whirled to face him, my face still red but beyond caring now.
“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 pullover 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 leaped 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 innately that proper posture created a better-looking rack—could you blame her? Nerves . . . fluttered.
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 beginning to feel. But I was determined to get it all out. He tried to grab me on one pass around, but I dodged his hands, almost slipping in a patch of crushed pecans, which I had crushed further in my circling. I had worn a path through the clutter.
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.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Come on, sometimes guys know.”
“No, really. How did you know?” I asked again.
He kissed my nose gently. “Because all of a sudden, you weren’t my Caroline.”
“I faked it because I haven’t had an orgasm in one thousand years,” I stated matter-of-factly.
“Come again?”
“I’m going across the hall to kick your door now,” I sighed, pulling away and shuffling through the sugar.
“Wait, wait, wait, you what? You haven’t had a what?” He grabbed for my hand as I turned back to him, with everything out in the open now.
“An orgasm, Simon. An orgasm. The Big O, the climax, the happy ending. No orgasms. Not for this Nightie Girl. Cory Weinstein can give me a five-percent discount whenever I want one, but in return, he took my O.” I sniffled, tears now coming to my eyes. “So you can go back to your harem. I’ll be entering the convent soon enough!” I cried, the dam finally breaking.
“Convent? What? Come here, please. Get your dramatic ass over here.” He pulled me unwillingly back to the kitchen and wrapped me in his arms. He rocked me back and forth as I let out ridiculous sobs and wails.
“You’re so . . . so . . . great . . . and I can’t . . . I can’t . . . you’re so good . . . in . . . bed . . . and everywhere else . . . and I can’t . . . I can’t . . . God . . . you’re so hot . . . when you came . . . so hot . . . and you came home . . . and I killed my brioche . . . and I . . . I . . . I think . . . I love you.”
All stop. Breathe. What did I just say?
“Caroline, hey, stop crying, you gorgeous girl. Mind running that last part by me again?”
I’d just told Simon I loved him. While my snot soaked into his North Face. I breathed in his scent, then peeled myself off him and headed to the wall to peel off the dough stuck there. Nerves sprang to life, for once working for us. Could I cover? Could I rally?
“Which part?” I asked the wall—and Clive, who had stopped playing with his nuts to listen in.
“That last part,” I heard him say, his voice strong and clear.
“I killed my brioche?” I hedged.
“You really think that’s the part I’m asking about?”
“Um, no?”
“Try again.”
“I don’t wanna.”
“Caroline—wait, what’s your middle name?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Caroline Elizabeth,” he warned, in a deep voice that unexpectedly made me giggle.
“Brioche is really good, when it’s not
flavored with wall,” I blurted, my exhaustion mixing with my confession for an odd buzz. I actually felt a little relieved.
“Turn around, please,” he asked, and so I did. He leaned against the counter, unzipping his snotty North Face. “I’m a bit jet-lagged, so a quick recap, if I could. One, you seem to have lost your orgasm, yes?”
“Yes,” I mumbled, watching as he took off his fleece, throwing it over the back of one of my chairs.
“Two, brioche is really hard to make, yes?”
“Yes,” I breathed, not able to take my gaze away from him. Underneath the North Face was a white button-down. Which was good enough on its own, but couple that with the way he was slowly and methodically rolling up the sleeves? It was mesmerizing.
“And three, you think you love me?” he asked, his voice deep and thick, like molasses and honey and all things afghan—blanket, not country.
“Yes,” I whispered, knowing it was 100 percent the truth. I loved Simon. Big, giant dur.
“You think, or you know?”
“I know.”
“Well, now. That’s something to consider, isn’t it?” he replied, his eyes dancing as he drew near. “You really have no idea, do you?” He spread his hands along my collarbone, brushing his thumbs across the very tops of my breasts.
My breathing quickened, my body sparking to life in spite of myself. “No idea about what?” I murmured, allowing him to press me against the wall.
“How thoroughly you own me, Nightie Girl,” he said, leaning in to whisper this part in my ear. “And I know I love you enough to want you to have your happy ending.”
And then he kissed me—Heart was in heaven—kissed me like it was a fairy tale, even though in this fairy tale I had dough sticking to my back and a cat with a pawful of nuts. But that didn’t stop me from kissing him back as though my life depended on it.
“Did you know I started falling for you the night you banged on my door?” he asked, kissing my neck. “And that as soon as I started to get to know you, I wasn’t with anyone else?”
The Cocktail Collection Page 29