“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.” All stop. Breathe. What did I just say?
“Caroline, hey, stop crying, you gorgeous girl. Mind running that last part by me again?” I’d just told Simon I loved him. While my snot soaked into his North Face. I breathed in his scent, then peeled myself off of him and headed to the wall to peel off the dough stuck there. Nerves sprang to life, for once working for us. Could I cover? Could I rally?
“Which part?” I asked the wall —and Clive, who had stopped playing with his nuts to listen in.
“That last part,” I heard him say, his voice strong and clear.
“I killed my brioche?” I hedged.
“You really think that’s the part I’m asking about?”
“Um, no?”
“Try again.”
“I don’t wanna.”
“Caroline—wait, what’s your middle name?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Caroline Elizabeth,” he warned, in a deep voice that unexpectedly made me giggle.
“Brioche is really good, when it’s not flavored with wall,” I blurted, my exhaustion mixing with my confession for an odd buzz. I actually felt a little relieved.
“Turn around, please,” he asked, and so I did. He leaned against the counter, unzipping his snotty North Face. “I’m a bit jetlagged, so a quick recap, if I could. One, you seem to have lost your orgasm, yes?”
“Yes,” I mumbled, watching as he took off his fleece, throwing it over the back of one of my chairs.
“Two, brioche is really hard to make, yes?”
“Yes,” I breathed, not able to take my gaze away from him. Underneath the North Face was a white button-down. Which was good enough on its own, but couple that with the way he was slowly and methodically rolling up the sleeves? It was mesmerizing.
“And three, you think you love me?” he asked, his voice deep and thick, like molasses and honey and all things afghan—blanket, not country.
“Yes,” I whispered, knowing it was one hundred percent the truth. I loved Simon. Big, giant dur.
“You think, or you know?”
“I know.”
“Well, now. That’s something to consider, isn’t it?” he replied, his eyes dancing as he drew near. “You really have no idea, do you?” He spread his hands along my collarbone, brushing his thumbs across the very tops of my breasts.
My breathing quickened, my body sparking to life in spite of myself. “No idea about what?” I murmured, allowing him to press me against the wall.
“How thoroughly you own me, Nightie Girl,” he said, leaning in to whisper this part in my ear. “And I know I love you enough to want you to have your happy ending.”
And then he kissed me—Heart was in heaven—kissed me like it was a fairy tale, even though in this fairy tale I had dough sticking to my back and a cat with a pawful of nuts. But that didn’t stop me from kissing him back as though my life depended on it.
“Did you know I started falling for you the night you banged on my door?” he asked, kissing my neck. “And that I as soon as I started to get to know you, I wasn’t with anyone else?”
I gasped. “But I thought, I mean, I saw you with—”
“I know what you thought, but it’s true. How could I be with anyone else when I was falling in love with you?” He loved me! But wait, what’s this? He was backing away…where was he going?
“And now, I’m going to do something I never thought I would do.” He sighed mournfully, looking at the stacks of bread on the table. With a deep breath and a grimace, in one fell swoop he knocked them all to the floor. Bread rained down in foil-covered bricks around us, and I can’t be sure, but I think I heard a tiny whine escape as he watched them hit the floor. But then he turned to me, eyes dark and dangerous. He grabbed me and swung me up on the table before him, nudging my legs apart to stand between them.
“Do you have any idea how much fun we’re going to have?” he asked, slipping his hands inside my apron, warm and a little rough on my tummy.
“What are you up to?”
“An O has been lost, and I’m a sucker for a challenge.” He grinned, pulling me to the edge of the table and snugly in to him. With his hands behind my knees, he wrapped my legs around his waist, kissing me again, lips and tongue hot and persistent.
“It’s not going to be easy. She’s pretty lost,” I protested between kisses, worrying his buttons open and exposing his Spanish suntan.
“I’m done with easy.”
“You should print that on cards.”
“Print this—why do you still have clothes on?”
He laid me back across the table as I grinned up at him. My foot hit the flour sifter and sent it crashing to the floor, dusting us thoroughly in the process. Simon’s hair looked like a biscuit, powdery and puffy. I coughed and a plume of flour came out, making Simon laugh out loud. The laughing stopped when I reached down for him, finding him hard, yet still covered in denim. He groaned, my favorite sound in the world.
“Fuck, Caroline, I love your hands on me,” he said through his teeth, dipping his mouth to my neck and leaving a trail of white-hot kisses across my skin. His tongue swept out across me, underneath the edge of my apron. Hands quickly found the bottom of my tank top, and it went sailing across the room, into the kitchen sink. Within seconds, a pair of shorts found themselves swimming alongside, quickly followed by a pair of jeans and a white button-down.