Chapter Twenty: A Sad Sort of Plan
1183 Words
For the sophisticated, post-s*x refreshments are a must. Whether they be cigarettes, glasses of wine, or puffed pastries cooked while the chef may or may not be clothed, it's a duty. For couples, not so much refinery is necessary. Maybe a hot shower or a clean towel and then a long nap. That's luxury enough. And when it was the two of us, earlier, we didn't have time for that. I didn't care to try. But this time, I would. It was my plan.
"You don't need to do this," said Nico as he lounged across his very-square couch. Even with my system purged of that pesky, lust, I still couldn't help but stare at him in his baggy sweat pants and how they hung off his chiseled body. "Didn't you have enough to eat?"
"There's no such thing, and I'm sure you can make room," I said, as I scoured the cabinets of such a small but the lusciously stocked kitchen. He had enough money to keep any possible ingredient he wanted, including exactly what I was looking for: Umami flavoring, better known as 'MSG.' "Don't act like you didn't work up a sweat."
He lifted his head, that lazy smirk flitting over his face. I could just barely see it as I looked down into the sunken-in living room. "Oh sure, you tell me."
When I cooked, I liked it to just be me and my thoughts, my craft. I didn't like being distracted by the salty scent of his sweat that hung to my nose no matter how many times I wiped my skin clean. I didn't like that my mind drifted to the warm soreness on my ass which had already started to spread. I didn't like to think about the glances I kept giving him.
I pulled a baking sheet from under the counter, let my hands work on the perfect food for my plan: dumplings. Simple to make, especially for a pasty chef. While in the kitchen, the experience took over. Instead of my brain directing me to do what, it was all in my muscles. My hand spinning the whisk in the pink bowl, my fingers kneading the dough and crimping the edges. The pot of boiling water? On the stove with a pinch of salt; I didn't even remember putting it there. All reflex.
"Who taught you to cook?" asked Nico as my hand played absently with the grains of flavoring. It looked like a shady sort of sugar to me, each grain long and spindly. In a pile, however, it looked fluffy enough to be mixed into some of my signature tarts. "What school did you go to?"
I scoffed. "Who has time for school as an alpha?"
"So you apprenticed somewhere?"
I scoffed again. I wished.
I didn't have to look at him to know he'd raised an eyebrow. I couldn't anyway, because I'd dumped several spoons of the MsG into the pot and was about to do the 'drop' in drop dumplings.
"To be clear, you're opening a bakery with no business knowledge and no formal training?"
One after another, I dropped the doughy bags with their fancily crimped edges into the boiling water. I watched the steam hiss up and the bubbles lap them up eagerly. There was an angry blush rising to my cheeks. "Yeah. And."
His breath quivered. Maybe there was something he wanted to say, maybe he wanted to convince me that I was making a very bad mistake. This, I already knew. This, I didn't care. "How much debt have you gotten in?"
"Why would I tell you? Because the Moon Goddess wants you to marry me or because we had s*x twice?" That was also reflexive. My first emotion would always be anger. It would always be my go-to. The second option would be to fall into a depression or at the very least burst into tears, so I was okay with the anger. I was okay being rude.
"Dimitri, that's not--"
"Oh, shush. Are you ready to eat?" And just like a wave, the anger dissipated. It had already crashed over me, now it was only a lingering mist. It didn't matter. Soon enough, I'd be gone.
"It smells delicious," he said, his voice just a little tepid. He was probably wary at this point, awaiting another emotional outburst. But what can I say? It had been a rough couple days.
I poured ourselves several dumplings into his fancy bowls, which were the masculine equivalent of fine china: black lacquer, and then crossed down into the living room. He lounged so prettily on the couch, I could feel my wolf still whining, desperate, but it was tinged with something now. Apprehension. Fear. At last, we felt the same about something. Lust and an existential dread. It was a start.
He held the bowl in his hands, squinted at it like it was some foreign object. "It's okay," I said, "It won't bite. That's your job."
I positioned myself behind him, placed my hands on his shoulders, and rolled my hands over them in gentle circles. His skin felt so soft, so warm to the touch. In another life, I could've been a massage therapist, all the back-rubs I gave (and for free, too!). He sighed, and the sound rang so sweet to my ears. If he wasn't my fated mate, my ball and chain, maybe I could've really, really liked him. Maybe I could've settled for the chocolates and roses and movie dates, boyfriend date sort of stuff.
"Oh," he moaned as he took a slurp of broth. My bowl sat on the end table, still untouched. "I can't wait to have you in my kitchen. Maybe then, I could feed you more than peppermints." Nico twisted his head to shoot me a wink, and my fingers dug into his shoulders just a little, all at the thought of being a little house-husband. Gross. Not for me, I couldn't be tamed.
"Uh-huh," I said, dropping my lips to his ear. Slow hypnotic circles, I worked up and down his back. I could feel the knots in his powerful muscles loosen just a little under my hands. I could feel him relax.
Slowly, slowly, he sank down into the couch, his empty bowl balanced on his lap and those slouchy pants, drawing my eyes (where else) but the man's godly physique. I saw the flutter of his lashes, saw his eyes fall shut. I waited, still running my hands down his back, my mouth still pressed to his ear. And then, at last, I pulled away. Lifted his hand and let it drop limp on to the couch.
This was The Plan: Give him a big homely meal and a nice massage to put him to sleep, after that, grab my stuff and go. Sure, he could find me again at the bakery later, but I could handle him then. In the mean-time, I had just found my (short-term) ticket away from this mess. I could handle myself: I always had, and I always would.
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- Writer
