Page 13 of The Law of Attraction

Eventually, I knock gently on the door. At least I thought it was gentle. The way Becky screams and practically jumps out of her own skin makes me realize otherwise.

She stares at me, her eyes locking on mine, which probably look wild from caffeine.

‘Are you going to let me in?’

She approaches the door cautiously. ‘This is a bit creepy, Drew. You’re not going to make me use my pepper spray, are you?’

I chuckle. ‘That’s not my intention, no.’

She unlocks the door and opens it but doesn’t step aside to let me in. That happiness I saw just moments ago has turned to a frown that honestly looks adorable on her. ‘I guess it’s my turn to ask what you’re doing here at my office?’

‘I guess I deserve that.’

She drops one hand to her hip, the other still holding the door and blocking my entry. ‘You sure do.’

Hmm, this isn’t quite what I had planned. Not that I had had a plan beyond my impulse to see her.

‘Right. Look, I came to apologize. I was a jerk with you, and I’m sorry. If you’re looking for a friendly face in the city, I can be a friendly face.’

Her brows furrow. ‘What makes you think I would want a friend like you?’

Ouch. I take a breath that leaves me on a tired exhale. The effects of my coffee might be starting to wane. ‘You’ve got me. I don’t even want to be your friend, but it’s after four in the morning, I’ve been working all night, and I would really like those chocolates now.’

I count the seconds I wait for her response. One. Two. Slowly, subtly, that glower dissipates and her dimples start to appear on one side of her inviting pink lips. ‘I thought you said my desserts were mediocre?’

I step forward and take hold of her hand, peeling it from the door. That small touch, my big hand folded around her small, delicate fingers, is like a blanket wrapping around my body. I find myself wondering how nice it would be to lie with her now, and sleep, actually sleep, in her arms.

She swallows deeply, as if she might have had the same brain fart I just had. I drop her hand and scratch the back of my neck for something to do with my fingers. She moves to close the door behind us, and I follow her to the kitchen. All the while, trying to shake the feeling that I’m the one who can’t handle being a friendly face and only a friendly face.

The palpable awkwardness in the air begins to fall away as she sets about turning on ovens and taking bowls from stainless steel racks and cupboards. When she disappears into the refrigerated room, I try to calm my unusual nerves. I take off my coat and rest it on the bench, then I grab a stool from the bar and bring it into the kitchen.

I take a seat at the worktop, opposite where Becky is spreading out ingredients – flour, eggs, sugar – and quite obviously avoiding my eye.

‘Are you going to look at me, British Becky the Cupcake Baker?’

She lifts her head sharply and, waving a wooden spoon at me, she says exactly what I expect her to say. ‘I don’t make cupcakes.’

She disappears to another part of the kitchen, which is larger than I had realized from the restaurant view. She returns with a box I recognize from my office yesterday. She takes off the lid and places a tray of chocolates in front of me.

‘If I did make cupcakes, they would be like this.’ She takes one more thing from the box, and it is very definitely a cupcake. I tell her so. ‘Just wait.’

She slides it toward me and hands me a fork. ‘Go ahead.’

I peel the paper from the sides of the cake and slide a fork through the creamy looking icing that’s piled high like a whippy ice cream cone. I cut straight through the middle of the confection, and the yellow cake bursts with some kind of soft center. I look up to find Becky grinning.

I take icing, cake and the gooey center and put the hefty forkful into my mouth. My eyes close when I wrap my lips around the little bite of heaven. Mango. Cinnamon. Vanilla.

When I reluctantly peel open my eyelids, she’s cocking one eyebrow at me, looking defiant and supercilious in equal measure.

‘I want to lie so bad right now but this… this is no ordinary cupcake.’

She nods. ‘I know. But I still don’t make cupcakes.’

I laugh, hard. I have no idea whether I’m high on coffee, delirious from the combination of flavors in my mouth, or whether being around this woman somehow just makes me happy. ‘You’re modest, British Becky.’

‘That makes two of us, Yankee Drew.’

As I begin working down the line of chocolates in front of me, Becky cracks eggs into bowls, sifts flour, and starts to hand whisk things, because she says that’s how you get the best feel for the mixture.

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