Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Oh, Zoe, I concur, as I stare at this yummy bit of scrumptiousness that has been singing its siren song all night. And I will be satisfied! I just need a knife and a plate before I face plant into this like Matilda’s mate, Bruce Bogtrotter.
“Yum. Yum. Yum.” I pop my hips left, right, left as I ridiculously dance my way over to the silverware drawer just because I can. It’s late, and it’s dark and there’s no one about. And because I am a secret fan of silent discos for one in my flat’s tiny kitchen.
The draw glides out oh-so smoothly. A fork, I mustn’t forget one of those. I’m not a complete heathen. Oooh, dessert forks. These folks are fancy. Like I didn’t know that already.
I slide the drawer closed, twerking as I drop low before electric sliding over to a nearby drawer for a tea plate.
Back to the cake, I cut myself a generous slice. Cake slice meets plate before I realize what’s missing. I almost pirouette to the fridge. Sad face—the cream is gone. I pull out a can of whipped in its place, the kind with the nozzle. I dance my way back, shimmying my shoulders as I shake the can. But when I apply a generous squirt, the can splutters and backfires.
Hell. “It looks like I’ve jizzed all over the place.” I frown at the mess covering the cake, plate, countertop, and my pajama top. And it turns out, I am a heathen as I scoop up the cream-jizz with my finger, sucking it quickly into my mouth.
Fork then meets cake and cake meets…
“Oh my God.” I drop my elbows to the countertop and my head between my shoulders as I roll the ooey-gooey lusciousness around my mouth. The flavors and textures; it’s flippin’ perfection. And the second mouthful is as good as the first as I bring my hand down, slapping the marble countertop like a one-handed round of applause. Sidenote: I think I’ve just worked out what the kids mean when they say this slaps.
This torte is a foodie religious experience, which is probably the reason why Händel’s Halleluiah Chorus suddenly comes to mind. My knees begin to move in time with the tempo as I break out in (quiet) song.
“Haaaa-lle-lu-iah!” From twerking to a (not quite) celestial choir, my enjoyment can’t be contained. “Haaaa-lle-lu-iah! Halleluiah! Halleluiah! Ha—Argh!”
My shock echoes in the cavernous kitchen as light goes on in the breakfast nook to my right, and three things happen almost at once:
I spin around.
My heart hits the floor.
And a tiny part of me dies.
That tiny bit would be my self-respect as I stare at M. LDH, my current, too-hot-to-handle boss.
“I… er…”—sound like I’ve been sucking from a helium tank—“I didn’t see you there. When I. When I came in.” Came in, danced about, talked to myself, shook what my mother gave me, then impersonated the world’s most average choir girl.
Bonus, I did all this in pajamas. Not even cute pjs, I silently lament. Miss-matched—a pink top and orange bottoms—and the T-shirt’s neck is all stretched-out. The bottoms are no better because they’re more like big knickers thanks to an unfortunate incident with a dryer. They’re the kind of sleepwear you pack to hang out with your bestie when planning for evenings with takeaway and wine with a little Regina George thrown in. They’re certainly not the kind of jimjams you want any man to see you in, let alone His Hotness over there.
From his seat at the side of the room, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even laugh.
Looks like the arrogant monsieur is back.
Slunk low in his chair, his hair shines in the glow of the lamp, his elbow and forearm resting on the table, his fingers laced negligently around the base of a fat crystal tumbler.
He’s changed since dinner, his shirt and slacks replaced by linen shorts and a soft-looking T-shirt. It’s as casual as I’ve seen him. Revealing too, as I note his tan, those corded forearms, and the way his sleeves hug his biceps.
My eyes slip lower, and my body experiences a frisson of delight at the sight of his bare legs. Thick thighs. A dappling of dark hair. I’m not even repulsed by his feet, and I’m really not keen on feet.
Like the art hanging in the Paris house, it’s very hard not to stare. But I try, until I realize I’m twirling the fork between my fingers. Again.
The corner of his mouth lifts as though hooked, and I can literally feel color flooding my cheeks because I know what he’s thinking.
“Has anyone ever been murdered by a cake fork?” My question is too bright, my voice too loud. I fold my arms across my chest and poke myself in the left boob with the tines. Forking hell! I try not to wince as I set it down and put my elbow to the countertop a little too hard in an attempt to appear casual.