The Collector
Page 62
“Sold.” He reached in the fridge, found a carton of eggs.
“Sit down and have your coffee, and I’ll fulfill my part of the deal.”
He didn’t sit, but watched her go back to the fridge, root around until she found some cheese, the butter. Drinking his coffee, he just leaned against the counter as she poked through the cabinets for his skillet, a little bowl, a whisk—a tool he couldn’t quite remember buying.
“You look good in the morning,” he told her.
“Ah, coffee’s doing its work.” She glanced back with a smile as fresh and cheerful as a spring tulip. “I feel good in the morning, usually. Everything starts fresh in the morning.”
“Some things hold over. Is there any way you can cancel this job? Just stay here until the only egg we have to think about is scrambled?”
“I can’t. There’s not enough time to find a replacement, or to clear that with the clients. They’re counting on me. Besides,” she went on as she broke eggs into the bowl, “HAG can’t know where I’ll be.”
“You have a website.”
“That only lists when I’m booked, not where or any client information. She’d have no reason to look for me in Tudor City.”
“Maybe not, but it’s a good distance from here if anything happens.”
She added cheese to the eggs, a touch of salt, a bit of pepper. “You’re worried about looking out for me, but I have many skills for looking out for myself. You just haven’t had occasion to see them in action.” She poured the egg mix into the skillet, where she’d melted a pat of butter. “Want some toast with this? Got any bread?”
He got the bread, popped a couple slices in the toaster. He could work on her, and this part of the problem, later. “How much more time do you need with the werewolves?”
“If I can get this next scene drafted—where Kaylee finds Justin’s mauled body—I’d feel very accomplished. I’ve got it in my head, so another couple of hours should do it.”
“Then you’ll have a couple hours after that and between your next job to pose for me again. That’ll work.”
He finished his coffee, immediately made a second before getting out two plates.
“Try this,” she suggested. “Will that work for you, Lila?”
He snagged the toasted bread, dropped one on each plate. “Will that work for you, Lila?”
“I don’t see why not.” She divided up the eggs, skillet to plates, then handed him one. “Let’s see how the writing goes.”
“Fair enough.”
A few blocks away, Julie woke. She felt amazing, wonderfully loose, blissfully rested, and let out a long, contented sigh as she stretched her arms high. Her mood bumped down a notch when she saw Luke wasn’t beside her, but she shook that off.
He ran a bakery, she reminded herself. He’d told her he’d be up and gone before five A.M.
Gone were the days when she considered five A.M. a reasonable hour to fall into bed after a party, but she was a long way off from finding it a reasonable hour to get up and go.
She had to admire his work ethic, but a little lazy morning sex would’ve been so perfect. Especially followed up with breakfast where she could’ve shown off her own kitchen skills. Limited, yes, she thought, but she made killer French toast.
Catching herself dreaming of lazy mornings and long nights, she pulled herself up short. Those days were over, she reminded herself, just like all-night parties.
It had just been sex. Really great sex between two people with a history, but just sex.
No point in complicating it, she told herself as she climbed out of bed, found the robe where it had landed the night before—on top of her bedside lamp. They were both adults now, adults who could treat sex—whether a one-time thing or an affair—in a reasonable, responsible way.
She had no intention of thinking of it beyond just that.
Now, like a reasonable, responsible adult, she’d get her coffee, grab a bagel—or some yogurt because she hadn’t remembered to buy bagels—then get ready for work.
She strolled into the kitchen, humming, then stopped dead.
There on her counter, sitting on one of her pretty china cake plates, was a big golden muffin, glistening with sugar. One of her glass bowls sat upside down over it like a dome.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted the bowl. Leaned down, took a little sniff.
Blueberry. He’d found the blueberries she’d bought the other day and used them in the muffin. Though given its perfect proportions it seemed almost sacrilegious, she broke off part of the top, sampled it.
It tasted every bit as perfect as it looked.
He’d baked her a muffin. From scratch.
What did that mean?
Did a muffin mean thanks for the really good sex? Or did it mean relationship? Did it mean . . . ?
How the hell was she supposed to know what it meant? Nobody but her grandmother had ever baked her a muffin before. And he’d thrown her off with this before she’d even had a chance to clear her head with a cup of coffee.
She broke off another piece, ate it while she brooded over it.
In the basement below the bakery, Luke kneaded dough on the floured butcher-block worktable. He had a machine that efficiently cut this labor out of the process, but when he could, he preferred getting his hands in it.
It gave him time to think—or just not think at all, with the rhythm of his hands and arms, the texture of the dough. The first batches of the morning had already been mixed, finished their two risings, and were baking in the brick oven behind him.
Today he needed this second round of loaves for a specific customer request.
He and his main baker had done the muffins, rolls, Danishes, donuts and bagels for the early-morning crowd in the main ovens during that first rising—and started the cookies, pies, scones and cupcakes during the second.
Once he had this dough rising, he’d head up, pitch in.
He glanced at the clock set prominently on the stainless steel shelves against the far wall. Nearly eight now, so he imagined Julie was up.
He wondered if she’d found the muffin he’d left her. She’d always had a fondness for blueberries.
And dark chocolate. He’d have to make her something special there.
God, he’d missed her. So much more than he’d let himself admit all these years. He’d missed the look of her, the sound of her, the feel of her.
“Sit down and have your coffee, and I’ll fulfill my part of the deal.”
He didn’t sit, but watched her go back to the fridge, root around until she found some cheese, the butter. Drinking his coffee, he just leaned against the counter as she poked through the cabinets for his skillet, a little bowl, a whisk—a tool he couldn’t quite remember buying.
“You look good in the morning,” he told her.
“Ah, coffee’s doing its work.” She glanced back with a smile as fresh and cheerful as a spring tulip. “I feel good in the morning, usually. Everything starts fresh in the morning.”
“Some things hold over. Is there any way you can cancel this job? Just stay here until the only egg we have to think about is scrambled?”
“I can’t. There’s not enough time to find a replacement, or to clear that with the clients. They’re counting on me. Besides,” she went on as she broke eggs into the bowl, “HAG can’t know where I’ll be.”
“You have a website.”
“That only lists when I’m booked, not where or any client information. She’d have no reason to look for me in Tudor City.”
“Maybe not, but it’s a good distance from here if anything happens.”
She added cheese to the eggs, a touch of salt, a bit of pepper. “You’re worried about looking out for me, but I have many skills for looking out for myself. You just haven’t had occasion to see them in action.” She poured the egg mix into the skillet, where she’d melted a pat of butter. “Want some toast with this? Got any bread?”
He got the bread, popped a couple slices in the toaster. He could work on her, and this part of the problem, later. “How much more time do you need with the werewolves?”
“If I can get this next scene drafted—where Kaylee finds Justin’s mauled body—I’d feel very accomplished. I’ve got it in my head, so another couple of hours should do it.”
“Then you’ll have a couple hours after that and between your next job to pose for me again. That’ll work.”
He finished his coffee, immediately made a second before getting out two plates.
“Try this,” she suggested. “Will that work for you, Lila?”
He snagged the toasted bread, dropped one on each plate. “Will that work for you, Lila?”
“I don’t see why not.” She divided up the eggs, skillet to plates, then handed him one. “Let’s see how the writing goes.”
“Fair enough.”
A few blocks away, Julie woke. She felt amazing, wonderfully loose, blissfully rested, and let out a long, contented sigh as she stretched her arms high. Her mood bumped down a notch when she saw Luke wasn’t beside her, but she shook that off.
He ran a bakery, she reminded herself. He’d told her he’d be up and gone before five A.M.
Gone were the days when she considered five A.M. a reasonable hour to fall into bed after a party, but she was a long way off from finding it a reasonable hour to get up and go.
She had to admire his work ethic, but a little lazy morning sex would’ve been so perfect. Especially followed up with breakfast where she could’ve shown off her own kitchen skills. Limited, yes, she thought, but she made killer French toast.
Catching herself dreaming of lazy mornings and long nights, she pulled herself up short. Those days were over, she reminded herself, just like all-night parties.
It had just been sex. Really great sex between two people with a history, but just sex.
No point in complicating it, she told herself as she climbed out of bed, found the robe where it had landed the night before—on top of her bedside lamp. They were both adults now, adults who could treat sex—whether a one-time thing or an affair—in a reasonable, responsible way.
She had no intention of thinking of it beyond just that.
Now, like a reasonable, responsible adult, she’d get her coffee, grab a bagel—or some yogurt because she hadn’t remembered to buy bagels—then get ready for work.
She strolled into the kitchen, humming, then stopped dead.
There on her counter, sitting on one of her pretty china cake plates, was a big golden muffin, glistening with sugar. One of her glass bowls sat upside down over it like a dome.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted the bowl. Leaned down, took a little sniff.
Blueberry. He’d found the blueberries she’d bought the other day and used them in the muffin. Though given its perfect proportions it seemed almost sacrilegious, she broke off part of the top, sampled it.
It tasted every bit as perfect as it looked.
He’d baked her a muffin. From scratch.
What did that mean?
Did a muffin mean thanks for the really good sex? Or did it mean relationship? Did it mean . . . ?
How the hell was she supposed to know what it meant? Nobody but her grandmother had ever baked her a muffin before. And he’d thrown her off with this before she’d even had a chance to clear her head with a cup of coffee.
She broke off another piece, ate it while she brooded over it.
In the basement below the bakery, Luke kneaded dough on the floured butcher-block worktable. He had a machine that efficiently cut this labor out of the process, but when he could, he preferred getting his hands in it.
It gave him time to think—or just not think at all, with the rhythm of his hands and arms, the texture of the dough. The first batches of the morning had already been mixed, finished their two risings, and were baking in the brick oven behind him.
Today he needed this second round of loaves for a specific customer request.
He and his main baker had done the muffins, rolls, Danishes, donuts and bagels for the early-morning crowd in the main ovens during that first rising—and started the cookies, pies, scones and cupcakes during the second.
Once he had this dough rising, he’d head up, pitch in.
He glanced at the clock set prominently on the stainless steel shelves against the far wall. Nearly eight now, so he imagined Julie was up.
He wondered if she’d found the muffin he’d left her. She’d always had a fondness for blueberries.
And dark chocolate. He’d have to make her something special there.
God, he’d missed her. So much more than he’d let himself admit all these years. He’d missed the look of her, the sound of her, the feel of her.
