Page 86 of Cakes for the Grump

“It’s okay not to be.”

Lies. Life gets much worse when you are not strong about it. So he needs to stop this. Stop looking at me so softly, as if I only have to step forward, and he’ll hold me all together. I am a cook from Mumbai. He’s a wealthy businessman existing in a fucked up fight-club society.

So—why—why does he keep looking at me like this?

To prove I am so fine, I wave him off and walk Sistine and Adam out like a good, definitely not rattled hostess.

After putting back on her heels, there is lingering hesitation at the door by Sistine. “I’ve got to say I’m sorry. I didn’t know you would have come to a place like that, Rita. I shouldn’t have left the invitation out like that.” Her mouth lifts wryly. “I forgot it in the kitchen because I wanted some of your cake. A red velvet slice.”

“No, it’s my fault—” I argue. “I had no right to go.”

“It’s not a place for you.”

Is it a place for you?

Sistine looks uncomfortable as she rests a hand on my shoulder as if she is new to affection and unsure if she’s doing it right. “I’m really glad you weren’t hurt. The people that go to these parties are the worst of the worst?—”

Why were you there?

“—I’m not upset we saved you. Just how Luke fought them when he didn’t have to.”

“I should have tried stopping him…” I say.

“No,” she snaps, before softening her voice again. “Not your fault. All his. Just—” She gestures around the flat. “If you could go confirm he’s really okay, I’d appreciate it. I think he caught a punch to the head, and if there’s a risk of concussion?—”

“I’ll check, for sure!”

“His bedroom is the last door in the hallway.”

“I’ll watch him all night if I have to,” I promise. I know concussion patients need to be woken up periodically to make sure no symptoms show up or worsen.

“You do that,” says Sistine with a strange snort.

She gives me another hesitant pat, then leaves with Adam.

TWENTY-THREE

This isthe first time I’ve gone to this part of the penthouse. When I reach a set of double doors, I think: This must be it. His bedroom. The master.

My heart rate is intense when I knock. He doesn’t answer. I try again, but no answer.

Shifting back and forth on my feet, Sistine’s concussion warning rings in my ears. What if he’s confused, disoriented, or fainted on the other side? There’s only the two of us here, so whatever the case, it’s my moral duty to make sure Luke is okay. With great determination, I turn the doorknob, half expecting it to be locked, already brainstorming battering ram solutions to break in.

The force of my momentum flings me inside enough to tumble forward a few steps. I raise my head and go motionless.

Luke is in the middle of pulling up sweatpants over his hips. With his body angled away, I avoid most of his front nakedness but catch enough of a glimpse for it to sear into my memory. I gulp. There was a line. A very strong line being tucked into place before being covered by cotton. If polite manners are to be observed, I should shut my eyes or try sneaking out of the room before he notices I am here. It’s bad enough his upper half is naked and wet enough to have just come out of the shower.

But I can’t make myself move, and I can’t stop looking. My throat is dry and my heart is hammering away.

It was already a guarantee based on the fit of his suits that Luke’s musculature would be exquisite, but seeing the specific details is killing me: wide shoulders, strong back, dimples above a fit bum that stretch out his lounge pants, and thighs comparable to Greek God sculptures.

He turns around.

I gasp.

“What a—” begins Luke as I squeak out, “Sorry?—”

We are both shocked, quiet. If he expects me to speak first, he needs to put on a shirt. He needs to hide his chest and the striking line of hair arrowing down his abs, disappearing into the waist of his pants. I’m finding it hard to breathe through this, let alone talk.