Page 48 of Mr. Swoony

I take out the butter. “How much do we need?”

She looks up online the fastest way to get butter and eggs to room temperature without waiting hours, and fifteen minutes later, we’re blending the butter and sugar together.

“Do you mind if I inquire about today?” I ask while I measure the dry ingredients, and she takes care of the wet.

Eloise doesn’t look away from the bowl. “It wasn’t as terrible as I thought it would be. Weird, but refreshing in some ways. I’m still processing how I didn’t see that I could never be happy long term with Tristan. For example, we were going to stay at the house the night of the wedding, instead of a hotel. I envisioned this whole thing of him carrying me through the front door and rose petals leading up to our new bedroom.”

I grip the measuring cup more firmly, thinking about her in Tristan’s arms.

“But there wasn’t even a bottle of champagne in the fridge. Maybe I’m being presumptuous to think a guy would think of something like that. Maybe my expectations are out of line.”

She turns on the mixer again, leaving me no time to tell her that a guy who loved her would have wanted to do something like that for her and wouldn’t have to be told. That she just picked the wrong guy. But it’s best I keep those thoughts to myself. She turns off the mixer, and I sift the dry ingredients into a bowl.

It felt as though I needed a million little things to make this cake, and of course I didn’t have most of them at my place. Thankfully, the woman at the gourmet shop put together all the supplies. She thought it was cute when I told her I wanted to bake a cake from scratch, but there was a little disbelief in her expression when she wished me good luck.

“When we left, it felt good to have the weight of it off my shoulders, but it’s embarrassing at the same time. Makes me second-guess all my choices.”

“You probably got caught up in the whole wedding thing. It happens.” I shrug. “My mom and Kyleigh have seen it a bunch of times.”

She shakes her head with what looks like disappointment. “Kyleigh probably knew. Last fall, I stared at myself in this dress she picked out for me, and I froze. I knew then but didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

“You’re being way too hard on yourself.” I head over to her with the bowl of dry ingredients. “You ready for me?”

Her gaze lifts, and our eyes lock.

Damn, there’s that chemistry between us again. If she was mine, I’d say fuck the cake and pick her up by her hips, prop her up on the counter, and strip her down. I’d lick the sugar right off her skin, and it’d only be sweeter as a result.

She clears her throat. “Not yet, I have to add the vanilla.” Turning away from me, she snatches the bottle off the counter.

Eloise measures and adds the vanilla before flipping the switch on the mixer. Again, we’re quiet. She’s watching the mixing bowl, and I’m taking not-so-sly glances at her.

She’s so beautiful—inside and out. I can’t believe Tristan didn’t fight for her. That he just went on their honeymoon, probably with that jackass of a best man. I’d chase her to the ends of Earth to win her back if I were him.

“Okay, we’re ready. We’re supposed to add it slowly. You take control. Just a little bit at first and a little more and a little more. Well, you get the point.”

Our eyes meet, and I smile. “I can do slow.”

“Really? I figured you for fast and quick.” She laughs.

“Quick?” I cover my heart with my free hand. “I’m insulted.”

She turns on the mixer again, and I dump in a little bit of the dry mix, both of us watching it being incorporated into the wet ingredients. I add a little more and a little more. We’re so close, I can smell her shampoo and what I think is her natural scent.

After it’s all mixed, we pour the batter into two round cake pans I picked up and put them in the oven. She sets her timer on her phone. We clean up the mess together, her putting away the ingredients and me washing the dishes we used. I’ve never been like this with a woman besides Kyleigh, and I kind of don’t mind it. Maybe domestication isn’t as terrible as I assumed.

When we’re done cleaning up, she slides onto the stool. “Can we talk rent now?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “Let’s do one thing at a time.”

“Conor, don’t baby me. I’m not some charity case. It’s nice enough that you got all this stuff to bake a cake, but I’d like to pay you back.”

It’s not that I want to baby her. This is just in my nature.

“I don’t know if you know, but I’m a helluva hockey goalie and signed a great contract last year.” I wink at her, but she stares at me hard and long. Is that her mad face? I guess my attempt at humor didn’t work.

“I have a trust fund, Conor, I’m not destitute.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

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