Page 74 of The Stranger

“And she’s so fuckin’ easy on the eye. That red bikini. Ah!” He clutches his hands to his chest, feigning a heart attack.

Maybe heart problems are catching as pain shoots down my arm. But I will not answer. I will not turn. And I will not rip off his fucking head for noticing her. The man is clearly deluded. Easy on the eye? Try frustratingly gorgeous. Arrestingly lovely. The colors of her hair no painter could capture, the flush of her cheek like crimson on satin. She has eyes that flash like sapphires and a mouth made for sinning. She’s witty, intelligent, admirable, honorable, and ought to be completely beyond my reach.

“But you know what I like best about Primrose?”

“I’m uninterested in your ramblings,” I retort, instilling my answer with boredom while hoping he’ll shut the fuck up.

“I like how she is with you.”

“You are sailing very close to—” My attention swings his way along with my demand. “What do you mean?”

“That Doctor Whittington is more than capable of handing you your ass. I like that for her. And I think you like it too.”

19

PRIMROSE

“Mm, mm, mmm.” My nails gleam pink and shiny as I tap my fingertips together slightly too gleefully for someone staring into the fridge as I scan the shelves for a dish I’ve been thinking about for the past two hours.

Chocolate torte, dark and sumptuous and it smelled oh-so scrumptious. An espresso ganache, a hint of amaretto, a smattering of raspberries sitting prettily on top, and a dollop of crème Chantilly to the side. I really wanted a slice, but I couldn’t eat another morsel after my plat principal. But it’s now hours, later and I can’t sleep. Likely because my brain is scarred from the sex-ed theory lesson I’d been forced to give.

I’m allowed to eat my feelings, and I deserve a lil’ sweet treat, I decide as I stare at the contents of the gargantuan fridge.

Do ladies really put it in their mouth? I mean, good Lord. How’s a girl supposed to answer that? Yes, but only if the girl is planning to bite it off? That answer might’ve made for one less blow-job-crazy boy in the world.

Or I could’ve said, Yes, but only on Christmas and birthdays.

Or maybe I should’ve ’fessed up and told him he was asking the wrong person. Except, that would’ve likely spawned a dozen more questions. And what if he’d repeated it to M. LDH? He’d probably think I was dropping anvil-sized hints, especially after I’d already (very stupidly) told him I haven’t had sex in eons.

Anyway, enough overthinking. Time for yum-yums.

The food is one of the highlights of this gig. I’m not usually the kind of person who waxes lyrical about food. I’m usually happy enough if there’s a cheese and pickle sandwich on offer in the hospital canteen. There is a very real risk that Zoe’s culinary skills will ruin that simplicity for me. That and my waistline.

Hand still on the fridge door, I make a noise of discontent. Surely, they can’t have eaten the torte already. But then I remember that, at the request of Sylvie, this cake is vegan. So no butter and no cream, save for the sneaky serve on the side. So maybe it isn’t in here.

The kitchen dims as I close the fridge doors and make my way to the end of the kitchen to what Zoe calls the pantry. It’s not a pantry in the usual sense but a traditional cold storage room. Cool air hits my face, the interior illuminating as I pull on the door. Which is also when a celestial choir breaks into song because I’ve spotted my target.

“C₆H₁₂O₆. Glucose, come to mama.” My whisper sounds awe filled as I reach for the porcelain cake stand it and carry it over to the countertop. It may be vegan, but this cake is not at all virginal. In fact, it is wholly immodest. Dark and moist and chocolately, and it smells so delish.

The recipe is neither traditionally Spanish nor elegantly Parisienne, according to its maker, but something relatively easy to make. “I’m a dessert slut,” Zoe had said earlier as I’d watched her fold in the flour. “I like ’em to be quick and easy to make, but they have to taste more than a little filthy.”

Oh, Zoe, I concur, as I stare at this yummy bit of scrumptiousness that has been singing its siren song all night. And I will be satisfied! I just need a knife and a plate before I face plant into this like Matilda’s mate, Bruce Bogtrotter.

“Yum. Yum. Yum.” I pop my hips left, right, left as I ridiculously dance my way over to the silverware drawer just because I can. It’s late, and it’s dark and there’s no one about. And because I am a secret fan of silent discos for one in my flat’s tiny kitchen.

The draw glides out oh-so smoothly. A fork, I mustn’t forget one of those. I’m not a complete heathen. Oooh, dessert forks. These folks are fancy. Like I didn’t know that already.

I slide the drawer closed, twerking as I drop low before electric sliding over to a nearby drawer for a tea plate.

Back to the cake, I cut myself a generous slice. Cake slice meets plate before I realize what’s missing. I almost pirouette to the fridge. Sad face—the cream is gone. I pull out a can of whipped in its place, the kind with the nozzle. I dance my way back, shimmying my shoulders as I shake the can. But when I apply a generous squirt, the can splutters and backfires.

Hell. “It looks like I’ve jizzed all over the place.” I frown at the mess covering the cake, plate, countertop, and my pajama top. And it turns out, I am a heathen as I scoop up the cream-jizz with my finger, sucking it quickly into my mouth.

Fork then meets cake and cake meets…

“Oh my God.” I drop my elbows to the countertop and my head between my shoulders as I roll the ooey-gooey lusciousness around my mouth. The flavors and textures; it’s flippin’ perfection. And the second mouthful is as good as the first as I bring my hand down, slapping the marble countertop like a one-handed round of applause. Sidenote: I think I’ve just worked out what the kids mean when they say this slaps.

This torte is a foodie religious experience, which is probably the reason why Händel’s Halleluiah Chorus suddenly comes to mind. My knees begin to move in time with the tempo as I break out in (quiet) song.