His finger now clean, he brushed a lock of hair behind my ear as I continued to punch/knead and flip. I winced when he touched me, the glorious image of him perched on top of me impossible to ignore.
“We gonna talk about this?” he asked quietly, dipping his nose to my neck. I leaned into his body for a scant second, then caught myself.
“What is there to talk about? I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Are you delirious from the time change?” I said cheerily, avoiding his eyes as I wondered if I could pull this off. Could I convince him he was crazy one? Goddamnit, how did he know?
“Nightie Girl, come on. Talk to me,” he prodded, nuzzling into my neck. “If we’re gonna do this, we need to talk to each other.”
Talk? Sure, I could talk. He should probably know what he was in for with me, doomed to wander the planet without an O for the rest of my life. I picked up the dough one more time and threw it against the wall. It dripped and rolled down, sticky like those creepy crawly things I used to play with as a kid. I whirled to face him, my face still red but beyond caring now.
“What was that going to be?” he asked calmly, nodding to the dough.
“Brioche. It was going to be brioche,” I answered quickly, my tone frantic.
“I bet it would have been good.”
“It’s a lot of work—almost too much.”
“We could try it again. I’d be glad to help.”
“You don’t know what you’re offering. Do you have any idea how complicated it is? How many steps there are? How long it might take?”
“Good things come to those who wait.”
“Christ, Simon, you have no idea. I want this so badly, probably even more than you.”
“They make croutons out of it, right?”
“Wait, what? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Brioche. It’s like, some kind of bread, isn’t it? Hey, quit banging your head against the counter.”
The granite felt cool against my defeated, hot skin, but I banged with less force when I heard the edge of panic in his voice.
He knew, and he was still here. He was here in my kitchen in that blue North Face pullover that made his eyes smoky sapphires and his entire body look cuddly and warm and sexy and virile and kick-me-the-in-head gorgeous. And here I was, covered in honey and raisins, banging my head on the countertop after killing my brioche.
Killing my brioche. What a great name for a—focus, Caroline!
Heart had damn near leapt out of my chest when she saw him at the door. LC was close behind, involuntarily clenching at the sight of him. Brain had shut down in shock and denial for a moment, but was now analyzing the situation and leaning toward pronouncing him a worthy candidate, noting the time and distance he’d committed to discovering the cause of concern. Backbone straightened now, knowing innately that proper posture created a better-looking rack—could you blame her? Nerves…fluttered.
Why. Why. He wants to know why. I examined him between bangs…ahem…and saw he was getting concerned. As was I—my head was really starting to hurt. I was tired, overwhelmed, and underorgasmed. And a touch slaphappy?
After one last bang, I straightened up, then listed a little left. I caught my balance, drew in a breath, and let fly.
“You want to know why?”
“I’d like to. Are you done banging?”
“God bless it, no more banging. Okay, why. Why? Here goes…” I paced in a tight circle, dodging the chocolate chips and pecans that had congregated close to the counter on the floor. I spied Clive in the corner, batting a few walnuts back and forth between his paws. Nuts all over the floor, nuts in my head. Fitting. “Know anything about pizza parlors, Simon?”
To his great credit, he listened. He listened as I went on and on, circling the kitchen island as I ranted and raged. I could barely make sense of it myself: “Weinstein…one night…machine gun…It went away!…night off…Jordan Catalano…Not even Clooney!…hiatus…Oprah…lonely…single…Not even Clooney!…Jason Bourne…almost Clooney…Pink nightie…banging…”
After a while he looked as dizzy I was beginning to feel. But I was determined to get it all out. He tried to grab me on one pass around, but I dodged his hands, almost slipping in a patch of crushed pecans, which I had crushed further in my circling. I had worn a path through the clutter.
I made one last pass, this time muttering, “Spanish fairy tale with prawns,” when I tripped over a muffin tin and fell into his arms.
He held me close, breathing me in, kissing my forehead. “Caroline, babe, you gotta tell me what’s going on. The mumbling? It’s cute and all, but we’re not really getting anywhere.” He pressed his hands into the small of my back, holding me in place. I pulled away a little, resisting his embrace, and looked him straight in the eyes.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Come on, sometimes guys know.”
“No, really. How did you know?” I asked again.
He kissed my nose gently. “Because all of a sudden, you weren’t my Caroline.”
“I faked it because I haven’t had an orgasm in one thousand years,” I stated matter of factly.
“Come again?”
“I’m going across the hall to kick your door now,” I sighed, pulling away and shuffling through the sugar.
“Wait, wait, wait, you what? You haven’t had a what?” He grabbed for my hand as I turned back to him, with everything out in the open now.
“An orgasm, Simon. An orgasm. The Big O, the climax, the happy ending. No orgasms. Not for this Nightie Girl. Cory Weinstein can give me a five-percent discount whenever I want one, but in return, he took my O.” I sniffled, tears now coming to my eyes. “So you can go back to your harem. I’ll be entering the convent soon enough!” I cried, the dam finally breaking.
“Convent? What? Come here, please. Get your dramatic ass over here.” He pulled me unwillingly back to the kitchen and wrapped me in his arms. He rocked me back and forth as I let out ridiculous sobs and wails.
“You’re so…so…great…and I can’t…I can’t…you’re so good…in…bed…and everywhere else…and I can’t…I can’t…God…you’re so hot…when you came…so hot…and you came home…and I killed my brioche…and I…I…I think…I love you.”