I smile slowly, loving the cool air around her. The frost in her eyes. The biting edge to this banter. It’s nothing I’m used to, a far cry from the warm reception I get from most women. It’s surprisingly exciting; like sparring.
I’m also loving the feel of her small hand between mine. She still hasn’t pulled it back and I’m not about to let it go.
“You don’t like me,” I point out candidly.
“I don’t know you.”
“But you don’t like me.”
She frowns at me. “What was the first thing you said to me?”
I chuckle, running one of my hands over my head brusquely. “Uh, I forget.”
“Short memory.”
“It’s a curse.”
“’Nice racks’,” she reminds me sternly.
“Thank you.”
She moves to turn away from me, pulling her hand swiftly from mine. “Wow.”
“Come on,” I laugh, touching her elbow lightly to stop her. “It was an opening line. It got you talking to me, right?”
“Right, and if you’re not that guy and you’re not hitting on me, why did you need an opening line?”
“Because I need a favor.”
“Sure, why not? Anything you need.”
I frown at her. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“No.”
“Now are you being sarcastic?”
She sighs tiredly. “What’s your favor?”
“I’m going to help you unload your van—“
“No,” she interrupts immediately. “I can’t take help from a guest.”
“What if I promise not to tell?”
“I don’t know you. Your word doesn’t mean anything to me.”
I put one hand on my chest. “Colt Avery,” I remind her.
“Running back. Yeah, I remember. I’ll rephrase that; I’ve known you for under a minute. Your word doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“What can I do to change that?”
“Letting me get back to work before I’m fired would be a great start.”
I drop my hand away from her elbow. I hadn’t realized I was still touching her.
She immediately turns to the van, lifting a tray out of the back. “What was the other half of the proposition?”
“You let me inside your box.”
Lilly pauses, the tray half off the rack. “I wasn’t kidding about the mace, dude. I have it. I’ll do it.”
I smile, gesturing to the boxes in the back. “I don’t see the cake on the trays. I’m assuming it’s inside one of those boxes.”
“It’s inside three of them.”
“I only need inside one.”
“I’ll let you inside none. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like the start of a negotiation.”
“Really?” she grunts, sliding the rack out entirely into her arms. “’Cause I meant it to sound more like the end of one.”
“Perspective is everything. From where I’m standing it’s promising.”
She nods to the side of the van. “Check the perspective standing over there. You’re in my way.”
I move aside, letting her pass. I wait until she’s a few paces away before I deftly lift the next tray from the back, hurrying to follow her inside the kitchen.
Not surprisingly, it’s huge. There are twin ovens stacked against the far wall, a massive marble island in the middle, and endless matching white marble countertops stretched along every wall. Dark gray cabinets with shining chrome handles anchor the room to pitch black floors that look glossy as glass. The space is filled with two dark haired waiters in their thirties and a young, blond waitress with her hair pulled back tightly in a sleek bun. They all give us a quick glance before returning to a line of champagne glasses being filled with effervescent gold.
Lilly unknowingly leads me into an adjoining room that looks like the pantry. It’s much smaller than the kitchen, with shelves lining every spare wall. Each shelf is covered in cans, boxes, and bags of food in neat lines that I’m sure are alphabetized or organized according to fiber content. There’s a large cart in the middle of the space covered in a thick white tablecloth. She sets her tray down carefully on one side of it.
When she turns to find me behind her she jolts again, her eyes going wide.
“Jesus mother!” she cries, immediately demanding, “Are you going to do that to me all day?”
“Why are these things so cold?” I ask, shifting the tray in my hands.
“To keep the frosting from melting. Can I have it, please?”
“It’s a friendly tit for tat,” I explain, shifting gears rapidly. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“You’re not going near my ‘tit’ and I want nothing to do with your ‘tat’. Now hand over the pastries.”
I give her the tray.
I also follow her back outside when she leaves.
“What’s the obsession with the cake?” she asks, not looking to see if I’m there. She knows I am.
“I want to know what color it is inside.”
“You want to know the sex of the baby. Why?”
“Curiosity.”
“Curiosity would have backed off when I threatened mace. The fact that you’re still here says there’s more to it than that.” She hands me the next tray. “So what’s the real reason?”
“I’ve got money riding on it.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
“A lot to you or a lot to me.”