Cream of the Crop Page 25

  “It’s a great poem.”

  “All great poems are based in truth.”

  “Truth?”

  “Seven times, Pinup.” He grinned proudly. “Seven times.”

  I laughed, pushing him down onto the bed. “We’re going for eight next time.”

  We undressed, brushed our teeth, climbed into bed, and fell asleep immediately.

  Well, almost immediately. Twenty minutes after I fell asleep I was awakened by his grumbling about it being too loud, and how could anyone sleep in this damn city?

  I rolled over, cued up the Sound of the Country app I’d downloaded in anticipation of this exact event, put in my earplugs, and let my guy fall asleep to the sound of freakin’ crickets . . . just like in the country.

  Give me sirens, horns honking, and drunk people walking home any day of the week.

  Dawn came early and swiftly. And so did I. Did you think he wasn’t going to go for eight? Oh my, yes he did, and before the sun was even fully up.

  I could get used to getting up early on Sunday mornings if this was the wake-up call. My toes pointing and back arching, he thrust into me from behind, spreading me wide, stroking me with his fingers as he drove deep. He made me say his name over and over again, made me come over and over again, then finally collapsed against me, pulling me on top of him in a tangle of tired limbs and messy hair.

  Afterward, he kept murmuring eight with a look of pure male satisfaction. Rolling my eyes, I snuggled back into his side to catch a few more z’s.

  But by nine, he had to go. Football practice, he said, and with more kisses and a promise to spend the night again next weekend, he was gone. And I had a brunch to get to.

  When I pushed open the door at my parents’ townhouse, Todd said, “Oh boy, are you in trouble.”

  “Hello to you, too,” I replied with a frown. No Mom yet. No Dad. And . . . did I smell something burning? “How bad is it?”

  “Four brunches in a fucking row?” He looked at me incredulously. “Did you suffer some kind of brain injury up there in the sticks?”

  I sighed. “I’d better go ahead and get this over with.”

  “One day when I have kids, I’ll tell them about their brave Aunt Natalie—the aunt they never got a chance to meet,” he said, taking my coat with all the ceremony of a general sending a soldier into a final battle.

  As he walked away whistling taps, I faced the kitchen with foreboding. I’d broken the cardinal rule of this family, and not even my father was going to believe the brunch-skips were all work-related.

  I took several steps forward, cocking my head and listening for signs of anything that could be taken as a good omen, that my parents were in a good mood this morning, and that other than some good-natured ribbing they’d be glad to see me, hand me a bagel and schmear and the lifestyle section of the Times, and everything would go back to normal.

  Then I heard my mother tell my father that if he burned another bagel, she’d use the paring knife on something he really didn’t want unattached from his body.

  Oh boy.

  I stepped on a squeaky floorboard right outside the kitchen and then froze, wondering if they’d heard it.

  My mother’s footsteps rang out across the kitchen floor, sounding like she was trying to crash her heel through to the cellar below. Each stride sounded familiar, and not in a good way. I knew the sound of those heels well.

  She was wearing her Chanel pumps. Pumps reserved for serious moments, like when I’d been caught smoking in eighth grade and she was called to the headmaster’s office. Moments like when tenth-grade Todd and his twelfth-grade girlfriend got caught with their pants down in our attic, and my mother had the girl’s parents over to discuss why this could never happen again. Pumps reserved for board meetings, for social functions with people she didn’t like but was required to play nice with . . . and funerals.

  The swinging door to the kitchen flew open, and there was my mother. Smiling. Which was the scariest part of all . . .

  “Natalie, so nice of you to show up. Care to tell us all about this cheese maker you’ve been running around with?”

  Here it comes . . .

  Chapter 19

  I lasted two days. Then I couldn’t stand it anymore. I knew when Roxie held her cooking class, I knew Oscar went to it, and I knew I could get up there, get to class, get a quickie in afterward, and be back in the city by midnight.

  “Holy shit!” I squealed to myself as I sat on the train, nearly bouncing off the walls with the excitement of sneaking off to the country for a midweek tryst with my . . . boyfriend.

  Officially I was writing this off as market research, just another way I was going above and beyond on the Bailey Falls campaign to make sure I was highlighting everything that could bring in revenue for the town.

  Hee-hee-hee . . .

  Every other time Roxie hosted one of her Zombie Pickle classes, I’d been busy and hadn’t had a chance to come up and take part in the class. I wanted to take the class because it was another way to spend time with my new friends and check out my best friend in action . . . and see my caveman.

  Zombie Pickle class started out with just her and her boys (Leo, Chad, and Logan). She wanted to teach people how to do things in the kitchen that everyone’s grandmother knew how to do, but that most young professionals didn’t have a clue how to do. Canning vegetables. Making jam. Cooking from scratch with a little bit of fun and love. As well as knowing how to make pickles so that if the zombie apocalypse ever hit upstate New York, Bailey Falls would be able to weather the storm as long as someone kept planting cucumbers.

  Her classes were a hit right from the beginning. Everyone from teens to the retired was heading to the diner for the classes and spreading the word on social media.

  When I’d decided at the last minute to come up for class, Oscar was thrilled at the prospect of getting a little midweek nooky.

  Roxie was less than thrilled. “It’s not that I don’t love you; it’s that kitchens don’t love you,” she said as I raced across town to Grand Central to catch the train.

  “Oh, come on, I’m not that bad—”

  “You have burned water, Natalie—that’s as bad as it gets. Don’t you dare ruin my class.”

  Point taken. I’d have to be on my best behavior.

  The diner was filled by the time I arrived. Roxie waved when I walked in, standing near the only empty station.

  “Your apron is hanging on the back of the chair and everything you need is here,” she explained, pointing to the table and giving me a “this is a terrible idea but we’re going to try it anyway” smile.

  I looked around, wondering which station I should go to, when I heard a low voice chuckle behind me. “Hey, Pinup.”

  I turned with a smile, almost tripping over myself to kiss him hello. Towering over his work space, surrounded by little glass bowls and measuring cups, was Oscar.

  He chuckled, deep and sexy. Judging by the heat present, he was thrilled to see me. His eyebrow quirked up as he gave me a very thorough once-over, and he licked his lips when his eyes reached mine.

  How scandalous would it be if I just pushed him down on top of the counter and had my way with him in front of the class?

  Roxie cleared her throat and banged a wooden spoon on a pot to get everyone’s attention.

  “Tonight, in case you couldn’t tell by the ingredients, we’re making banana nut muffins! It’s something that a bunch of you requested.”

  Great. I raised an eyebrow at Oscar, knowing that his ex-wife kept him swimming in muffins, and he tried not to laugh.

  Roxie was moving on to the next step. “If you’d prefer a loaf pan instead of a muffin tin, I’ve got a few pans up here. Anyone?”

  My hand shot up. Oscar looked over, but I brushed off his silent question.

  Roxie tossed me the loaf pan and I got to wo
rk buttering it while everyone else was lining their muffin tins. Oscar’s and Leo’s big hands were struggling with dropping the tiny paper liners into their trays, but they seemed to be enjoying the experience. Everyone was, actually.

  Roxie walked through the class, offering tips and praise. “Very good, guys. Louise, try a little less butter. Elmer, you don’t need that many liners in the same tin, they’ll never bake that way. Looks good, Oscar.”

  While I was still greasing the pan, she moved on to the next step. My hands weren’t cooperating and I fumbled over the flour measurement, spilling some of it onto my station.

  “What are you doing?” Oscar whispered to me, watching me make a mess.

  “Having fun,” I whispered back through my teeth.

  During the banana-mashing process, I dropped an earring into the macerated mush and had to fish it out with a toothpick.

  When it came time for the whisking, I splattered not only myself with the batter, but poor Elmer in front of me.

  “Stop laughing,” I snapped at Oscar and Leo.

  “I’m so sorry,” I apologized to Elmer, handing him another paper towel.

  Roxie, busy with a teenager who was having a hard time measuring out the right amount of mix per cup, looked over at me and mouthed, “You okay?”

  I just nodded and kept mixing the lumpy mess in my bowl. The bananas were stinky, and was it supposed to be bubbling?

  “If your mix is ready, pour it into the tins and we’ll get them in the oven. Holler if you need a hand.”

  I turned the bowl over the loaf pan and waited. The mixture oozed out slowly, dropping into the pan in a congealed glop.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to look like that, Pinup,” Oscar said, poking it with a wooden spoon.

  “It’s fine,” I said, slapping the spoon away with my own. “I’ve never been a big fan of baking. Or cooking. Or grilling.”

  I brushed past him, taking my pan to the kitchen. Roxie joined me, waiting until the room was clear before asking, “How’re you doing?”

  She looked down at the pan and didn’t have to ask again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept pushing you to come to one of these. It’s just that everyone has fun, and I wanted you to—”

  “Rox, it’s fine. I’m having fun, and now having experienced it, I have a new angle for my campaign.”

  “Zombie Pickle class will be part of it?” she said, surprised.

  “Yeah, it might not be the front page of a travel brochure, but it’s definitely included.”

  As our boys joined us, Oscar kissed me sweetly on the cheek, then his eyes went wide and he pointed to the bank of ovens. “Rox, you got a problem there.” The oven that contained my loaf pan was pouring smoke out of the front.

  “Shit! Grab the extinguisher just in case.” She donned two pot holders while running over.

  It wasn’t as bad as the smoke made it seem. Apparently my loaf pan was too full and overflowed onto the floor of the oven. She pulled out the pan and dropped it onto the counter, and waved off any smoke that her exhaust fans didn’t get.

  My banana nut bread was neither banana-y nor nutty, but it was very much misshapen and inedible.

  “Good thing I hate bananas,” I joked, feeling a pressure in my chest when Oscar looked over.

  “Remind me to keep you away from my grill,” he said with a laugh when he poked the bread brick. “I can’t believe you’re this bad at cooking.”

  A lump formed in the back of my throat. “I told you I was this bad. I just wanted to try something new.” The last time I’d tried to cook for someone, anyone, was Thomas . . . Ugh. Not going there.

  “Natalie, I’m just teasing you,” he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “Not all women can cook.”

  Logically, I know he didn’t mean anything by it. But I wasn’t feeling logical right now: I wanted to have cute muffins like everyone else. I could have tried harder, I could have listened better, but—

  Fuck that. Natalie Grayson wasn’t a Susie Homemaker. And I wasn’t ever going to be.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll share my muffins with you,” he offered, draping his arm over my shoulder. He looked proud when Roxie pulled his tray out of the oven.

  They were perfect. For all the screwing around he and Leo did throughout the class, they managed to not fuck it up. The muffins were light golden brown and smelled fantastic. Had Missy taught him how to bake?

  Jealousy wasn’t something I liked to experience. Add in my failure of the evening, and I was downright cranky. And what was this other feeling, making the backs of my eyes burn? Suddenly I wanted to be at home, in my apartment, ordering takeout and not feeling all the feels.

  “You know what, I’m not feeling that well. I think I’m going to head back into the city.”

  Oscars eyebrows rose. “Now?”

  “Yeah, can you run me back to the station? I can be at home and in bed by eleven. Do you mind?”

  “Well, no, I mean of course I want you to feel better, but I thought that we’d get a chance to—”

  “Not tonight. I need to go home,” I interrupted, not sure why I needed to so badly, but home right now sounded like a better place to be.

  His disappointment spoke volumes, and part of me really wanted to explain. But how could I when I didn’t know exactly what I was feeling? It was hard enough figuring out my own shit, let alone having to worry about how he might take it.

  As I gathered my things, Roxie handed out the trays labeled with the students’ names. It was little touches like that that I wanted to make sure I included.

  As she hugged me good-bye she said, “We can make something else next time you’re in town.”

  “I’ll pass,” I said firmly, and kissed her on the cheek. “This class is fucking fantastic.”

  She nodded thanks, looking like she wanted to ask me what was going on, but knowing me well enough to leave it alone.

  Oscar drove me to the station, I kissed him good-bye, and was back in my bed by eleven as promised. Though I didn’t fall asleep for a long time . . .

  Over the next week I thought about what had happened at the cooking class, and I wanted to do something to make it up to Oscar. And I think I knew just the thing . . .

  “It’s just like babysitting,” I told Roxie over the phone.

  “It’s a hundred percent not just like babysitting.”

  “But it could be—it’s just a matter of rebranding it.”

  “Then call Clara to babysit your boyfriend’s cows! She’s the rebranding expert.”

  “First of all, Clara can’t babysit cows; she doesn’t have the necessary skill set. Second of all, I resent you insinuating that she’s the only rebranding expert around—I’m an expert, too. Third of all, he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Not your boyfriend—that’s hilarious!”

  “Fourth of all, I’m not asking you to babysit Oscar’s cows; I’m asking your boyfriend to do it. So Oscar can spend the entire weekend in the city with me.”

  I held my breath and waited. We’d been texting all day about this, and I’d finally called her to see if I could work some magic this way.

  It was Thursday afternoon, my desk was covered with All Things Bailey Falls as I worked on the Hudson Valley campaign, and all the pictures of fall leaves and glacial lakes and down-home family fun were making me horny.

  In my head, that sounded better . . .

  I’d woken up this morning with the brilliant idea of asking Oscar to come into the city a day early and spend the entire weekend with me. A real New York weekend.

  Oscar didn’t have the same kinds of responsibilities a regular boyfri— Er . . . guy would have. It wasn’t as simple as canceling a tennis match or theater tickets; Oscar’s plans involved other people each weekend. Not to mention bovines.

  So I was trying to get Roxie to help me s
mooth the way before I broached the subject. Since Oscar’s herd seemed to enjoy pasturing over on Maxwell Farms occasionally, maybe they could have a weekend getaway, too?

  Oscar would have the final say, of course, but my analytical mind liked to always present problems with solutions, getting out ahead of any possible no’s in order to make it a yes. Or at least a very firm maybe . . .

  Because when it came to firm, I needed it. Bad. I’d been strung out in orgasm withdrawal all week, and if I didn’t get some this weekend . . . well, then . . .

  “Just talk to Leo, see what he says. If he says no, then fine. But if he says yes—”

  Roxie laughed. “It’s not like watching somebody’s dog for the weekend, Nat. It’s a little bit bigger deal.”

  “Yeah, but all you farmers are tight up there, helping each other out all the time and all, right? Don’t the Amish always get together, raise each other’s barns and such?”

  “We’re not Amish.”

  “Semantics. Say you’ll do it,” I commanded, pounding on my desk with my fist, trying to be as forceful as possible. “I need to get laid.”

  Intern Edward walked in during that last part, turned beet red, and walked right back out again.

  “See, I may have just contributed to a hostile working environment. Someone needs to step in and save me from myself,” I whined.

  “Oh, shut up already, fine,” she snapped, and I gave myself a fist bump. “You owe me. Next time I’m in town, you’re taking me to any restaurant I choose.”

  “Done.”

  “And you’re paying.”

  “I figured.” I grinned, doodling pictures of cows on my scratch pad, and drawing little hearts around them. “Now when I ask Oscar to spend the weekend, he’ll see how responsible I am.”

  “You do that. And the next time I talk to Oscar, I’m going to ask him if he’s your boyfriend. He usually comes into the diner for lunch on Wednesdays . . . Maybe I’ll just pop on over and see if he feels chatty.”

  I sat up straight in my chair. “You wouldn’t.”

  “You know I would.”

  “Don’t you dare—”