Dean

Six months ago

I’m nervous as I climb the steps of the rather small apartment building, and it gets worse with every entryway I pass on the way up. There’s a baby crying through one door, some shouting through another, and I’m pretty sure that was a string of rather creative expletives that drifted under that last one. That’s not even taking into consideration the dog that’s barking in the foyer–if one could even call the six-by-eight space at the base of the stairs that. 

My heart is pounding and I’m sweating by the time I reach the top, and not from climbing the stairs. There’s just way too much going on inside of these walls for me to be comfortable with. Especially after the day I’ve had. There’s a reason the past should stay in the past, some things just come back to bite you in the ass. 

Which is why I probably should have cancelled this arrangement, but I needed a new direction for my procrastination, and this was the perfect fit. Also, cooking calms me.

Looking from left to right, my eyes snag on a familiar looking number. I walk over to the door and balance the pastry dish in one hand so I can use the other to knock. Just before I can, there’s a loud crash of something falling, followed by grunts of what I can only imagine is displeasure. 

Well shit. 

I drop my hand to the pocket of my jeans and slip out my phone. Unlocking it, I check the number Lexi sent me. 

Five-oh-nine. 

Unfortunately, when I lift my eyes to the number on the door, they correspond. 

This is bad. For all I know, I could be walking into a domestic violence situation, something I have no intention of getting involved in. Although I might not have a choice depending on how this plays out. 

I take a moment to consider my options. When Lexi approached me to ask for help with whipping something up for her assistant, she never mentioned that anything was out of the ordinary. 

Although, logically, I know that people on the outside of these situations never know about what goes on behind closed doors. Even a sharp psychologist like Lexi might not realize something is up if this assistant of hers is putting up a good front. 

I’m chewing on the inside of my lip as I consider phoning her and subtly asking if she’s ever had any suspicions, when I hear a very girly voice echo through the door. 

“Fudgesicles.”

Blinking rapidly a few times, I try to figure out if I heard that right. I wait for the voice to say something else, but all I hear is some shuffling around. A glance around the small landing confirms there’s nowhere for me to put the dish in my hands, so I settle for bracing it against my hip as I press my ear to the door. I’m hoping to hear something else that could prove useful in figuring out what’s behind–cue game show host voice–door number one.

I’m fully aware this places me firmly into the weirdo stalker category, but at the moment I’m a little desperate to find out what I’m letting myself in for. 

Some mumbling follows, but it’s incoherent so I’m still on the fence. 

Not sure how long I’m going to have to stand here waiting, I try adjusting my stance to something more comfortable, just as the door two places down from where I’m standing swings open. 

Startled, I quickly jerk back and rap on the door rather forcefully, then mentally berate myself for doing it. I look to the side just in time to see a pale looking woman with sunken in eyes slinking past. Her clothes are ill-fitting and her hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in a week. She doesn’t even spare me a glance.

Yup, definitely a place where domestic violence is likely to take place. 

Greaaat. 

Imagine my surprise when the door in front of me swings open to reveal a young woman with ginger waves on top of her head and freckles dusted over her cheekbones and nose. She’s relatively small, the tight fitting jeans and tank top she’s wearing accentuating her slim frame. The shirt shows off her pale, bruise free arms. Granted, her hair is slightly frizzy, and she looks flustered, but other than that she seems completely normal. And not at all like someone who gets bashed around on the weekend.

Feeling awkward, I thrust the dish in my hands forward. “Delivery.”

She squints her vivid green eyes at me, the motion causing her freckled nose to scrunch up, then holds up a finger. “Hold that thought.”

Spinning around, she heads back into the apartment. 

“Come in,” she calls over her shoulder as she waves me in, right before she walks straight into the corner of a couch. “Crab Muffin,” she says as she rubs the spot. 

I have to put a lot of effort into resisting the urge to pull a face, because seriously, what the hell?? Also, I don’t think it would be very polite. 

I follow her and do a sweep of the room to make sure we are in fact alone, before turning my attention back to her. She grabs something off the kitchen counter and then pulls up the hem of her shirt up to rub the thing between the pinched edges. The action puts the bottom of her abdomen on full display, and I can’t stop my eyes from darting down to admire the smooth, pale skin of her flat stomach. Suddenly, said skin disappears from view, and it takes me a few seconds to realize it’s because she’s putting on her now cleaned glasses. 

“Sorry about that. They got misted up when I opened the oven.” She motions to her rather nice face. “I’m basically blind as a bat without them.”

She’s barely done talking when a small crease appears in between her brows. Her eyes trail down my body, stopping at my sneakers, and then back up again. 

I shift uncomfortably under her gaze, and jerk the dish up. “Where do you want this?”

She blinks and then shakes her head slightly, before motioning to a small piece of open countertop. “Right. Here is good. Thanks.”

Once the dish is on the counter, I wipe my hands down the sides of my jeans and move to introduce myself. “Hi, I'm Dean.”

“Oh right,” she says as she tries to fist pump my open hand. Her eyes drop down when she comes into contact with my fingers. “Uh…” She does a weird half wave with fluttering fingers when she registers I’m waiting to shake her hand and her face turns red. “So, yeah. Okay.”

This is by far the weirdest introduction I’ve ever experienced, but all coherent thoughts cease when she finally places her rather small hand–or it could be a regular size seeing as how I have mammoth hands–in mine and nods her head as she slowly shakes my hand.

Her hand is warm and soft just like I imagine the rest of her is, and I find myself not wanting to let go. 

Captivated by how her hand disappears wrapped up in mine, I start to wonder what else could get wrapped up in my hand.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts by a tug on my hand and Amber looking at me with a weary expression on her face. I'm presuming she wants her hand back now. She pulls said hand from mine when I loosen my grip and I drop my arm to my side. 

“Hi. I'm Amber, by the way.”

I nod. “Hi.”

She gives me a small smile. “Hi.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from saying hi again and making this awkward situation worse. My eyes wander over Amber’s shoulder–which isn’t difficult considering I’m probably a foot taller than her–and snag on an upturned baking tray on the floor, the contents scattered over the tiles. Another tray sits on the counter, filled with strategically placed black shapes. 

Frowning, I motion to it. “What's going on there?” 

She looks over her shoulder and cringes. “Those were supposed to be chocolate chip cookies,” she says as she points to the tray on the counter before motioning to the upturned one on the floor. “Those too, but I caught the corner of the tray on the oven when my glasses misted up.”

I walk into the tiny kitchen and stop in front of the counter to poke one of the shapes. It crumbles into black powder under my finger. 

“Uh, okay. Where are the chocolate chips?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re in there somewhere, burnt to a crisp like the rest of the cookie.”

I almost fall over backwards when the soft voice comes from right next to me at the same moment a hand lands on my arm. 

Generally I run hot, so the contact shouldn’t feel like it burns my skin the way it does. I jerk in surprise and she pulls it back just as quickly, tucking her hair behind one ear as she blushes. 

“Sorry.”

The action exposes the side of her neck, which looks just as slim and smooth as her middle. Her ear has a single peach flower in the middle which looks almost too bulky against her delicate skin. 

I shake my head and drop my eyes back to the tray. “It’s fine.”

Even though it most certainly is not. 

After a beat of silence I look back up and realize she must have said something, because she’s looking at me expectantly. She’s also still standing really close to me. 

“Sorry, what?”

“I just said I was trying to make dessert to go with whatever it is you made.” She thumbs over her shoulder to the dish I brought in. “What did you make?”

“Lasagne with a twist,” I say without looking at it.

“What’s the twist?”

“It’s a family secret.”

I don't know why I told her that. 

Amber pauses before tipping her head to the side. “Okay. So how do I explain that to them? They’re going to meet my mom eventually, and it’s definitely not her secret. She doesn’t cook.”

I shrug. “Get them to guess.”

She chews on the inside of her lip. “These aren't really the kind of people you play dinner games with.”

Her words are a reminder that she’s most likely involved in a world I have no business being a part of, and obviously it’s serious if she’s talking about family introductions. She’s definitely off limits. And for a reason I can’t explain, it pisses me off. 

“So what kind of people are they?” I snap. 

Amber stills, clearly taken aback with my tone. 

I don’t blame her, I shocked myself. I certainly wouldn’t appreciate a stranger going off at me just a few minutes after we met. She didn’t mean anything by what she said, and I’m taking offense for no apparent reason. I’ve spent years trying not to be an asshole. Unfortunately for me, I realize I just acted like one.

Well shit. 

“Look, I’ve had a long day.”

Amber’s eyes dart around as she swallows and hugs her arms around herself. “Okay.”

That thing about me being so much bigger than her? Yeah, not at the moment. Something about the sight before me has me shrinking down to three feet. A frustrated sigh slips out as I scrub a hand over my face. “Ah shit.”

She cringes.

I take a breath. “Okay. So, I had a pretty rough day at the club, just some stuff that didn’t work out quite right. But that’s not your fault, and I had no right to take it out on you. I’m sorry."

At first Amber looks confused. She blinks rapidly for a few seconds before she replies. “It’s really okay. But thanks.” 

I grunt in response and then motion to the burnt blobs again. “So are we going to talk about what happened there?”

Groaning, she pushes the tray to the side. “Let’s not. I don’t get it, I followed the instructions to the letter. The timer hadn’t even gone off when I smelt them burning!” She throws up her hands, clearly irritated. 

I drop down and inspect the dials. Giving it a tap I shake my head. “Here’s your problem. The timer is bust.” 

“Seriously?” In a second she’s in my personal space again. And it doesn’t bother me for the reasons it usually does. I move out of the way so she can look at the dial. 

“Fricken Murphy,” she mumbles. 

“What?”

“Nothing.” She straightens and waves it off. 

I think for a moment then cross my arms over my chest. “Want me to help you with dessert?”

She chews on her lip before stuttering, “Oh. No that’s okay. I’ll think of something.”

“I’m already here, you might as well put me to work,” I say jokingly.

“You’ve already made the meal. I don’t want to keep you from any plans you might have.” 

“Don’t have plans,” I say with a shrug. “Think of it as an apology.”

Eventually she nods and offers me a small smile. “Okay, if you’re sure. Thanks.” Her smile drops. “I don’t have anything we can use though. That box of cookies was the last premix I had.”

A plan forms in my head and I smile. “Have you got sugar, eggs, and shredded coconut?”

“I think so yes,” she answers quizzically. 

I make some space on the counter. “Well then I hope they like coconut.”