Page 110 of Carnal Wagers

Somewhere in that speech, I stopped breathing. The rough grit of his words was music to my ears. It was like sniffing the most enticing fragrance in existence, or like unearthing a new mixture of chemicals and their explosive reactions. Yet instead of making me float, my emotions took a nosedive to the pit of my stomach. These were words I’d waited years to hear, but so far, he’d done nothing to prove them. In fact, he’d done the opposite, which made them feel cheap and tainted.

“How about breakfast?” I said with enough cheer to fool the best of them.

“Breakfast?”

“Yes. You know the meal you have in the morning.” I ducked out of his hold and back into his bedroom. I snatched my underwear out of his discarded pants pocket and slipped them on. “Do you have eggs?”

I didn’t wait for him to answer, already halfway to his bare kitchen. Surprisingly, food packed the shelves of his fridge. Stacked and filled containers took over the tallest shelf, while colorful fruits and leafy vegetables crammed the crisper drawers, and cheeses, an array of yogurts, and condiments lined the top. I fully expected a letdown of an empty fridge when I barged in here, only to find this treasure trove. I grabbed what I needed to make a yogurt sponge cake and headed for the pantry.

“What are you doing?”

“Baking.”

I set all my ingredients on the counter and turned in search of bowls and a whisk.

Avoidance was currently my middle name. Between his constant confessions and my mother’s call, I needed something stable and immutable. Hence baking. There was little else that made as much sense as a basic chemical reaction. The process never changed—several substances combined to create a new product. There was comfort in its guarantee. No guessing games. No disapprovals or disparagements. No confusing sweet words and no fluttering feelings that were screwing up all my plans.

“Why?”

I winced under the weight of that question. I probably looked a bit crazy storming in here, half naked, and taking control of his kitchen, like I had any right to. My face flamed under the embarrassment of losing my well-practiced composure.

Oven on, I cracked the eggs over the sugar and yogurt in the bowl, unable to meet his eyes.

“It helps me think. Probably like cooking for you.”

“I don’t cook.”

My brows furrowed, gaze flicking over to the fridge as I whisked the ingredients.

“A cook comes twice a week. Whatever I don’t eat in time, he takes away and replaces.”

“You don’t like cooking?”

“Don’t have the patience.”

“I get that. Cooking frustrates me endlessly.”

“But you bake.” It was more a question than a statement.

“That’s different. It relaxes me. It’s about mixing portions of exact measurements to obtain a mixture, generally homogeneous, that will become something completely different. There’s a simplicity to it you can’t find elsewhere. It’s a predetermined feedback loop for a specific set of steps. No guessing required, unless you change the formula.” With the oil and baking powder added, I buttered the mold. “And that’s the fun part. It’s as much about experimentation as it is the enjoyment of the end result, whether it fails and sours the tongue or tastes like summer in your mouth. It all depends on nothing but you and your skill at combining ingredients, following instructions, and improvising if need be.”

The clinking of the whisk against the mixing bowl echoed across his cavernous apartment, making his silence all the more poignant.

I poured the mixture into the mold as my phone chirped. The moment the oven thudded shut and my confection lit up inside, I checked my phone. Anything to keep avoiding these awkward moments of Cillian’s oppressive and unrelenting stare, like he was dissecting me and analyzing my insides. His gaze might as well have been a laser pointer highlighting my defects. My fingers cramped with the constant need to rake through my tousled hair, swipe under my eyes for smeared leftover makeup, and tug on the ends of my torn top, as if that would make it cover my butt.

I checked through Maeve’s older unread messages sent yesterday afternoon.

Maeve

So? Did you get to twist his head on straight? How’d it feel to tell him off?

What’s the verdict then? Still going with your plan?

You banged him again, didn’t you? Careful, babe, this is a slippery slope. He’ll only hurt you again.

Well, guess someone’s getting pounded into oblivion. That’s the only good excuse to not answer my texts.

Erel is taking me out to dinner. Text, bitch, or I’m not bringing you home anything.