“I swore up and down that I’d have dinner before dessert,” he says.
“What’s for dessert?” I ask, as innocently as I can. “Pie? Ice cream?”
“It’s a euphemism, Thalia,” he says, laughing softly. “You’re dessert. Obviously.”
“How subtle,” I tease.
“I was trying to be classy.”
“In a flour-covered shirt and those sweatpants?”
“I told you, I meant to change before you got here,” he says, and kisses me again.
Then, after a beat, he pulls away.
“What’s wrong with these sweatpants?” he asks, suddenly suspicious.
I can feel myself color instantly.
“They’re sweatpants,” I say. “That’s all.”
“No, you said these sweatpants,” Caleb says, eyes narrowing. “Spill it, Thalia. Do you not like gray? Is there an enormous mustard stain on the back?”
“Have you looked at yourself in a mirror?” I ask.
“No,” he says, still suspicious.
“They’re obscene,” I tell him.
Just then, there’s a loud, repeated beep from further inside the house, and Caleb grins his most rakish grin down at me.
“I’ve gotta go get dinner from the oven,” he says, dropping a quick kiss on my lips. “You’re welcome to come along if you can handle the obscenity.”
“I’ll try,” I answer, and he leads me into the kitchen.
I also note that the sweatpants highlight his ass in a way I never would have predicted.
Sweatpants. Who knew?
We walk down a short hallway, over creaking wood floors, and take a left into the kitchen.
It smells incredible. It’s also a mess, which does explain Caleb’s current state.
Every burner on the stove has a dirty pan on it, the scent of browned meat hanging in the air. There are two separate chopping boards on different parts of the counter top, one covered in flour and one strewn with discarded vegetable parts. There’s also a food processor, a colander, mixing bowls, a roll of aluminum foil, a couple of empty plastic clamshells, and a spilled bag of pistachios.
All the way at the end of the kitchen, alone on the table, is a square brownie pan with something in it.
Caleb grabs two hot mitts, then flips his oven light on and peers in.
“Golden brown is so subjective,” he says, staring intently.
“Baking’s an art, not a science,” I say, walking behind him, toward the brownie pan.
“Baking is essentially chemistry, which absolutely makes it a science,” he counters. “At the very least, each recipe should give you a color chart with their definition of golden brown.”
I walk back, crouch next to him. In the oven are two things that look a little like pizza, but clearly aren’t.
“That’s golden brown,” I say, with somewhat more authority than I feel.
“All right,” he says, and we both stand as he opens the oven, pulls the baking sheet out. He balances it on top of a pot on his stove, and since I don’t want to watch something tragic happen to something that smells so delicious, I investigate whatever’s in the brownie pan.
It’s not brownies. I looks like some sort of pudding or maybe a cake, with a thick layer of cocoa powder dusted on top.
Experimentally, I reach one finger out and very, very gently touch the powder.
Caleb’s hand wraps around my wrist, pushing my fingertip into something white and gooey.
“No stealing,” he says, his voice surprisingly close. I look over my shoulder and he’s standing over me, his right hand over my right wrist, the length of our arms touching to the shoulder.
“I wasn’t stealing until you interfered,” I protest. “I was just gathering information.”
“Well, now you’ve put a dent in my perfect tiramisu,” he says.
“Call it a sample if it’ll make you feel better,” I suggest.
“Samples are offered. That was purloined.”
His hand is still around my wrist and there’s a wicked, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t let go, fingers gritty with flour and crumbs.
“So I’m doing something I shouldn’t?” I ask. “Here? Alone with you, at your house?”
He laughs, his voice low and raspy and melodic, and lets my wrist go.
“Touché,” he says, leaning one hip against the counter, arms folded over his chest.
I look down at my fingertip, then back up at him.
Slowly, I put it into my mouth and suck it off. It’s sweet and tangy, followed by the bitterness of the cocoa powder, and I keep my finger in my mouth longer than I need to.
Caleb’s just watching me. As I pull my finger out of my mouth, he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“Thalia,” he says. “You are trouble with a capital T.”
“Good trouble or bad trouble?” I ask.
“I thought there was only the one kind.”
“I’m bad trouble, then.”
“You disagree?”
Caleb steps toward me, anchors his hands on the counter on either side of me, leans in. I’m wearing heels and he’s barefoot, and he’s still got a good six inches on me.
“I think I’m at least neutral trouble,” I say, anticipation prickling down my spine.
There’s a swipe of flour on his cheek, so I reach up and brush it off.