Page 31 of Cause When You Love Someone
The night was still for a second before I muttered, “I like it.”
“Hm. Do you like me?”
“Maybe.”
The long nightout with my club brothers, mixed with my morning workout, caused me to arrive at Ms. Louise’s cooking class a little after noon.
Nine months ago, I signed up for the class out of boredom, yet I picked up skills I used anytime I was in the kitchen. Most times, I was the only man in the room unless one of the ladies dragged their partner along.
I purposely left my phone in the passenger seat before I hopped out of my truck and hurried to the suite. In the past, Ms. Louise met me at the door with a warm smile and an apron in hand, but this go around, the sound of giggles and chatter replaced her hospitality.
I stepped through the door and saw the ladies were situated in the back of the classroom. My first thought was that a private event was taking place, and Ms. Louise forgot to tell her other students. I turned around to leave, yet a familiar face bolted my New Balances to the floor.
“Superman!”
A batch of butterflies danced around my gut as the unofficial nickname soared through the room. When the popular lady maneuvered out of the man-made circle, the students wandered to their posts, giving us a minute alone.
“Clarke Rose. What are you doing here?”
“You don’t look happy to see me.” She pouted.
“It’s not that. I’m just . . . shocked. Did you know I would be here?”
“Yeah,” she replied in an innocent manner. “The night I stayed at your place, I heard you mention a cooking class in Chandler. I did a little research, and Ms. Louise’s was the only one scheduled for today.”
I pulled at her full skirt. “Did the website say something about the dress code?”
“No. I dressed like a Stepford wife because I wanted to. A girl can dream, can’t she?”
“Yeah.” I nodded slowly. “There ain’t nothing wrong with dreaming.”
Dazed, I massaged the hair on my chin as her honesty sank in. It had been a few days since our nightcap, and though I hadn’t gone to look for her on my day off, I was glad she came to see me.
“All right. Since you’re living in a dream world, you won’t need this.” I snatched her phone from her grasp and slipped it into my pocket. “If you really did your research, you know phones aren’t allowed in here anyway.”
“But, what if . . . never mind. All right. I can do it.”
We left our uncertainties behind once I led her to the two-man station near the front of the room.
“Good morning, everyone!” Ms. Louise addressed the class. “I see we have some new faces in here. Welcome! I’ll give you step-by-step directions on how to make something amazing from scratch.”
“From scratch?” Clarke’s outburst tore through the silence. “I’m sorry. The website said we’d stick to the basics. The only thing I make with confidence is money and oatmeal.”
Ms. Louise gripped her wide hips. “You walked in here looking like a beauty out of the fifties, and now, you’re scared of a little action? Cut it out. You got this. I think the fine man next to you will help too.” She winked. “Now, before we get down to business, I need everyone to wash your hands, then grab a pair of gloves. There’s a caddy on your station with everything you’ll need to make a key lime bar.”
Once Ms. Louise was done giving us the rundown, we got down to business.
At first, Clarke seemed to be in her own world, grinning every so often at something I wasn’t privy to. But after about ten minutes, she cleared her throat and glanced at me.
“Can we talk while we cook?” she asked after a while. “You’re in the zone. I don’t want to be a distraction.”
“You being here is a distraction. A good one,” I confessed while slipping an apron from her hands. Like she was a mannequin, I laced the polyester material over her head, then tangled the strings around her small waist.
Though my vision lingered on her white heels, I could feel the fire in her eyes melt away all the reservations that kept me from pressing her back against a wall the night we slept together.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” I heard myself ask.
“I’m just thinking. How did you get here? A cooking class. A motorcycle club. You’re a collector. You have expensive taste, and I’m not talking about material things. Where does it come from?”
