Page 23

Choux pastry, cookies, cakes, French toast, pumpkin pie… everything I could think of.
It wasn’t all peaches and cream that’s for sure.
The cookies burnt and my cake didn’t rise so that’s why I made the French toast; to heal my broken self esteem.
I was so proud of how well my French toast turned out that I decided to try the choux.
I want to say that the recipe was so easy that it helped me a lot, but I’m not going to take away from my own success.
I made that choux my slave.
I was on a roll at that point and felt like a master chef.
I made the pumpkin pie as part of my never-ending mission to show Carter that I would be the best wife.
I don’t get how he can’t see how much I care about him. We could be so good together; we’re already so good together.
I didn’t care how long or how hard I had to beg him to show him that I was the right woman for him.
I didn’t realise how messy I had made the kitchen until I put a lot of whipped cream on the pumpkin pie. More of a mess than usual.
The thought was real.
This pumpkin pie could make Carter fall in love with me tonight. He loves that vegetable. If I just dress up like a big pumpkin, he might fall in love with me a lot faster.
But if he saw how messy his kitchen was, he might lose it.
Carter didn’t get mad at me very often, but when he did, it was the worst kind of guilt trip, except for when Asian parents were mad at me.
I had to think about the pros and cons, and I knew that the best thing for me to do was clean the kitchen.
He wouldn’t be mad at me, and he might even fall in love with me just because I cleaned something, like the kitchen.
I don’t care if you think it’s silly; it took me two hours to clean that kitchen. The kitchen was made for a giant, which was hard enough on its own. The main thing that held me back was that I didn’t have enough experience.
When I was done, my shirt was soaked with cleaning fluid and I smelt like a gross mix of dish soap and eggs.
When I was making that stupid cake, I broke one of the stupid things on myself.
I knew Carter would be home soon, so I took a shower and did a quick pampering session by putting on his favourite lotions and wearing one of his t-shirts. I still didn’t wear a bra, but this time I did wear knickers.
Not for me, but for him.
I had just finished putting my hair up in a messy bun when I heard the front door open and ran outside.
“Cartie!” He grabbed me at the last second and fell back, which made me feel nervous right away. When I randomly dive on Cartie, he never falls.
“Hey, babygirl.” I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and all the bad memories came rushing back.
My dad was drunk almost all the time he was home. He would sit on the couch and drink while looking at pictures of my mum. There was a time when I could talk to him a little, even when he was drunk. But as I got older, he couldn’t even look at me without crying.
I was so confused and heartbroken. I thought it was my fault that he was like that, so I stayed in my room until he left. As the years went by, I was a little glad that he came home less and less.
I didn’t like going over those memories again. My stomach got tight, and I felt like I was going to throw up.
I asked him, “Are you drunk?” as I held his cheek.
I was scared to think of Carter as my father, but I knew they weren’t the same. They couldn’t be.
Carter always talks to me, but my dad hardly ever did. Carter never leaves me alone for long, but my dad always did. They could never be the same.
Also, I knew I could help Carter even if he started acting like my dad. I was set on doing it.
“No, I think I have 95% control over my senses,” he said in that deep, calming voice of his.
To me, he didn’t look very drunk. To be honest, he didn’t look drunk at all. He just seemed to be smiling more than usual.
This was good.
“You didn’t drive home, did you?” If he drove home drunk, I would kill him. After that, I’d wake him up so I could kill him again.
“What? No way,” he said right away. “I took a cab home. I would never be that careless. Amaya, you know I’ll always come home to you, right?”
I felt like my heart stopped for a second, and I got really embarrassed. The little things he says make me think I might have a chance one day.
“Okay,” I said, lightly scratching the back of his neck with my nails. “Go sit in the living room and wait. I made something special for you.”
He frowned and silently asked me what I was doing.
I pretended to slide down his body to get him worked up and lightly tapped his b**t as I walked by on my way to the kitchen. He hated it when I did that, but I would never stop.
It was important to appreciate an a*s that great.
I ran to the kitchen and got a fork and the pie. He had sat down in the living room when I got back, as I had asked.
I couldn’t help but look at his arms and almost moaned. He was in great shape. When he walked around this flat without a shirt, oh my goodness.
That’s why I almost dropped his pie when he took off the dumb t-shirt and raised his bazookas.
Oh, sweet holy cannoli.
My pants.
No one could tell me I wasn’t the luckiest girl in the world.
I didn’t wait a second longer; I walked right up to him and sat on his lap, where I belong. He quickly put his hands on my waist, and I made myself comfortable.
He smiled at me in a silly way, and I thought he might be drunker than he said he was. I was thinking more like 85% of his senses were under my control.
“What do we have here, baby?”
“I made you a pumpkin pie.” I cleared my throat when I realised I sounded like I was trying to sell Girl Scout cookies. I get why Carter wouldn’t want to be with me sometimes. I acted like a baby a lot.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to do my best to be a grown-up woman for him.
He looked at the pie with heart eyes and said, “I think I love you a little more every day.”
I know that when he says he loves me, he means it in a brotherly and protective way. That doesn’t stop me from pretending that I was his soulmate and that he was always telling me how much he loved me.
It helped me get some sleep.
“I love you too,” I said sincerely, even though he didn’t get how serious my words were. With courage, I began to run my index finger down his chest, between those beautiful pecs, down his toned stomach and across the path where his trousers kept me from going lower.
He kept looking at me while I shamelessly touched all over his torso.
“When did you start to like baking?” he asked, and I told him about how bored I was earlier today.
I made sure to use the pictures I took before and after when I got to the part where I cleaned the kitchen. I had to be sure that I could stretch it out as long as I needed to.
The next time he says I don’t clean, I’m going to show him these pictures and shove them in his face.
But that doesn’t mean my heart didn’t stop when Carter told me he was proud of me.
I got tired of talking, so I picked up the fork and gave him a big bite. He groaned and licked his lips, but all I could think about was how dumb the fork was.
He fed me next, and I was excited to eat with the same fork. We counted this as a kiss. It always did, and it always will.
We ate the pie in silence, listening to the quiet of the flat. He put down the fork and picked up a dollop of whipped cream with his finger halfway through.
I couldn’t take my eyes off his finger as it went in and out of his mouth. Forget what I said before. I wanted to be that finger.
He went in for another dip, and before he could put it in his mouth, I lost it. I took his hand and put his index finger in my mouth.