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I can’t call Harper. If she learns that Julian bailed on work, she will go postal, offering advice that would surely land me in a male strip club with an empty wallet and a hangover the following day.
Furiously, I beat the eggs into my pumpkin muffin mix, threatening to crack the ceramic bowl.
Yes, I’m baking pumpkin muffins for dinner, but pumpkin is a fruit, so technically, it is a healthy meal. The cream cheese icing that goes on top is technically a cheese, so I can consider that a protein as well. This is girl logic at its best.
A knock at my door startles me, and I knock over the measuring cup filled with oil.
“Shit!” I grab a cloth and toss it over the mess.
There should be a warning sign on my front door that says, 'Warning: Pissed-off emotional female angrily baking. Do not disturb.'
A second knock comes.
“Coming!” I shout.
My mistake is rushing and not cleaning up the mess. I jump over it but don’t account for the width of the oil spill. My heel catches some of the splash zone, causing me to skid and slip.
A jackrabbit, I am not.
“Ouch!” I cry, landing hard on my ass. I bury my head in my hands, feeling the flour press into my skin.
What I want to do is cry. It helps sometimes.
"Poppy!" Julian's voice comes through the door, edged with worry. "Are you okay?"
“Oh god,” I exhale. “No!” I call back. I’m not okay. I’m emotionally a disaster, and now not only is my heart bruised, but my ass is as well.
“Open up,” he shouts.
I stand and wipe the tears from my eyes. My ankle feels tender from the fall. I shuffle to the door and open it. He's standing there like my knight in shining armor, on the edge of his toes, ready to battle whatever is hurting me. His gray eyes look past my shoulder, then back to me as they skim down my body. The top three buttons of his dress shirt are undone, and he looks exhausted.
“What’s wrong?” Julian asks, his eyes taking in my situation.
Besides my puffy eyes, I’m back in my yoga pants and old stained shirt. Harper would burn me at the stake for committing such a fashion crime again. My hair is up in a messy bun, and I’m willing to bet there is flour on my face and oil staining my ass.
“You!” It’s all I can muster, my voice thick with a cocktail of emotions. “You’re what’s wrong.” I turn around with a slight limp now as I go back into my kitchen to begin cleaning up my mess.
“I was an ass,” he admits as he follows me.
"More like a coward," I mutter, bending to wipe up the oil. It seeps into my fingertips, under my nails and cuticles. Well, at least I'm getting a manicure as I clean.
Julian rips a paper towel off the rack and comes to my side to help, but I'm an angry bitch right now, and I don't want his help.
"Sit down!" I growl.
"Let me help."
"Julian, just sit down," I snap.
He pauses before standing.
Okay, so he understands the mood of an angry woman. That's a check on his pros' list. Not that I'm still making a list, that is.
He rounds the island and sits on the barstool that came with my apartment. Before he showed up, I planned to eat my emotions in muffins and look for furniture online.
I wash my hands, feeling his eyes watching me. I grab the bowl and pour the muffin batter into the molds.
“It smells good,” he offers, but his eyes are on me, not my muffin mix.
