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As he rounds the kitchen island to the oven, he scoops up a pair of ball shorts from the floor and tugs them on over his boxers.
Rows and rows of cupcakes line the granite countertops and part of the island, some iced, some not. “You…made all of these?” I ask, sliding onto one of the barstools.
“I did.” He gathers his hair at the nape with an elastic, then ties on an apron and collects a mug from the cabinets.
“They look amazing.”
The timer chimes, announcing the next batch is ready, and he opens the oven door a takes a peek. Closes it and sets the timer for three more minutes. As I watch him my eyes roam over his exposed skin. I have to squint to see them, but they’re there, mingled in with the tattoos—scars of all shapes and sizes. Like he’s been in a horrible wreck or some knife fights, or both.
When he turns back around, I divert my attention to the cupcakes.
“Wanna try one?” he asks.
“Sure!”
He pours my coffee first. “Sugar? Cream?”
“Black is fine.”
He gently slides it across the counter so it doesn’t slosh, then looks around at the cupcakes to choose the perfect one. “With icing or without?”
“With, of course.”
“Of course. Any allergies?”
“Nope.”
He continues his search.
“Are these for today?” I ask as I take a dainty sip to test the temperature. It’s a bit hot, so I begrudgingly set it down. But it tastes like heaven. Dark, smooth, caffeinated heaven.
He scoffs distractedly. “Yeah right.”
Wait… “So, these aren’t for the benefit?”
“No, honey.”
“No?” I try to look more intrigued than confused. “Just have the munchies then, or…?”
That makes him laugh, and he has a great one. Like Jake. It comes from deep within his belly and explodes through his entire being. He also has the gorgeous smile and teeth the match. “Here,” he says, collecting himself, and grabs a cupcake with grainy white icing. “Gingersnap cake with cinnamon buttercream icing. Should go well with coffee.” He somehow delicately removes the wrapper with his large fingers without disturbing the icing, then places it on the cutting board. “I wanted to test this one anyway.” He turns to remove a knife from a knife block and it makes a perfect shing sound, metal against handcrafted stone, and the noise pivots my attention back to the ink-covered scars along his arms.
“But, no, not the munchies, either. I make these for clients.”
I test my coffee again. Not quite cool enough. “Clients?”
A wink. “Word has gotten out about my cake.”
“Do you have any cards? I can hand some out to my friends.” I feel like a jerk the moment I say it. Did I forget why I’m here? He won’t want anything to do with me or my friends when this is over.
A pang of guilt begins to gnaw at me. I do like him, but I tuck it away. Back where I keep all the other things I don’t want to feel so I can focus on my objective, which also means maintaining my cover as Jake’s girlfriend. And that’s something Jake’s girlfriend would have asked.
“No cards,” he replies. “I’m kind of on the down-low.” He punctuates down-low with a therapeutic chop of his knife into the cupcake.
The suddenness of it makes me jump.
“Mom would kill me if she knew.”
He places my half of the cupcake onto the wrapper and hands it to me.
