Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,65
Eve,” Greg said.
“By Christmas Eve,” I repeated.
The problem?
I sort of did want to build a life with her.
35
Morticia
“Dayum, that art piece is steaming hot!” Lilith exclaimed when I showed her the progress on my scholarship collage. “I’m impressed! Your art is reaching a higher level.”
“She has to get up that high because Jonathan’s dick is so long!” Emma said, cackling.
“Shhh,” I hissed at them. “Keep it down.”
We were about to go down for yet another bake-off, and the apartment was emptying out, but I didn’t want to take any chances.
“You know,” Emma said as I hid my project. “A part of me is thinking you might actually have a shot at winning this bake-off. There’s a big pot of prize money. Between that, your scholarship, and the money from doing Jonathan’s marketing, you’d be living large in Los Angeles.”
“You might even be able to afford to rent a whole bedroom instead of a doghouse,” Lilith said.
“For today’s bake-off challenge,” Anastasia said when we were all assembled, “we have the pamper-your-man challenge. Tell him you love him with personalized desserts, and follow it up with a massage. There’s nothing like spending an intimate winter evening with your partner. Create the perfect couple’s retreat with your dessert.”
“I’m going to let him eat the desserts off of me,” Keeley said.
At the judges’ table, Jonathan’s eyes widened slightly. Was he excited at the prospect?
Probably, I told myself. He probably is tired of the game you two are playing. He just wants something low effort. Like ordering dinner or a car, he just wants his women to come to him easily.
I bet he could make you come easily.
Less sex! More baking!
But Jonathan was just sitting there at the judges’ table, leaning back in his chair. He wasn’t watching the action. He was watching me.
I prided myself on being a woman who was not easily flustered. Haunted houses, abandoned properties, snakes—I didn’t even flinch. But now I was making mistakes and forgetting ingredients, all because Jonathan was staring at me. Not doing anything else. Just watching.
I cursed under my breath as I accidentally dropped a chunk of eggshell into my batter. For the pamper-your-man challenge, I was making my own special towering chocolate lava cake torte. It consisted of two layers of rich chocolate cake with a light, creamy whipped custard mixed with fresh berries. On top, I would pour a thick, fudgy frosting and top it with another heap of berries and a dusting of powdered sugar. To drink, I was serving a refreshing juniper champagne cocktail.
To keep the cake moist and fudgy, I used less flower than I normally would for a cake. This recipe would not work if the cake was crumbly and dry; it wouldn’t hold up to the berries, the custard, and the fudge frosting.
I poured the dark, chocolaty batter into two greased, floured, and lined baking tins and slid them into the hot oven. Then I started on my custard. In a double boiler, I stirred the egg yolks, heavy cream, sugar, and amaretto liquor over low heat. Cooking was meditative, and I was meditating on Jonathan.
I don’t want to sleep with him, I assured my inner rationalist. I just want to use him to get pictures for my scholarship. It was about money, not sex.
And even if it is about sex, who cares?
I cared. I didn’t know what Jonathan’s deal was. Was he being nice to me because he wanted to sleep with me? What if, after that happened, he decided he had had enough and bounced to the next girl? That was his mode of operation after all. All the tabloid articles I had read during my stalking—ahem, research sessions—were always quick to point out how Jonathan had never been seen with the same woman twice.
I looked down at my scuffed boots. What made me think I was the one person special enough to break his habit?
All that introspection still didn’t fix my problem of needing more pictures for the scholarship art project. Regardless of how he felt about me or I felt about him, I’d have to keep him interested long enough to take all the photos I needed.
I chanced a glance back over my shoulder toward him. I definitely wanted him. Just from looking at him, my panties had magically caught fire and were burning away cheerfully like a Yule log.
I sniffed. “Wait, that’s…” I opened my oven. “Smoke!” Thick black smoke billowed out. “What the fuck?” I coughed.