Page 42 of Malaise
“No problem,” he grinds out as he slaps the cut butter into the pot with more finesse than necessary. “None at all.”
“Really? Because all you’ve done is remind me how naïve and childish I apparently am, and it’s really ramping up my self-confidence, which is just great considering the shitstorm I’m facing. I especially love the fact you make me feel like a burden, even though I never asked for you to intervene,” I sass.
He heaves a sigh and drops the chocolate in his hand into the pot. “You’re not a child, Meg.”
“You seem to like reminding me how young I am every chance you get though.”
“Maybe I’m not reminding you,” he says as he snatches up the remaining chocolate and dumps it in the pot before squeezing a healthy dose of golden syrup in after. “Maybe I’m reminding myself.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You reckon you’re a smart girl—work it out.” Carver turns his back and slams the pot down on the stovetop, cranking the dial around to half.
I know what it sounds like it means, but whether or not that’s the intended message, I don’t know. “Do you want us to be… a thing?”
“Depends what you classify as a thing.” His muscled arm is a stark contrast to the gentle stirring motion he makes.
“Anything more than friends.” I cross my arms over myself and wait on his next move.
He stirs the melting chocolate and butter slowly; his shoulders rise and fall in a steady rhythm as he breathes long and deep. Everything about his posture appears calm, collected.
Which is why I yelp in surprise when he ditches the wooden spoon and whirls on me too fast for me to retreat. He slams both hands either side of my hips on the edge of the bench and leans in close, a small frown pinching at his brow.
Carver swallows hard.
I lean back, only to have him match me by moving forward.
He licks his lips and drops his gaze to my mouth.
I can’t breathe.
“When’s your birthday, Meg?”
“A little under a month.”
The tip of his tongue sweeps a lazy trail along the ridge of his top teeth as he grins, the wolf ready to devour the lamb. “Less than four weeks and you turn eighteen.”
“Exactly.”
“Perfect.” And with that he’s gone as quickly as he approached. “I better not burn the chocolate.” He picks the spoon up and returns to stirring the pot—quite literally. “Could you pass over the Cocoa Pops?”
With shaking hands I set the container down on the bench beside him. His fingers brush mine as he picks it up, and then empties a pile into the pot. I stay rooted to the spot as he turns the heat off and mixes the ingredients together until he has a tacky mess on his spoon. Scraping the majority off, he holds what’s left out to me.
“Lick it.”
I take the offered spoon and hold it as he ducks around me to retrieve a rectangular tin and some baking paper. He looks over as he lines the tin and glances between the spoon and my mouth.
“If you won’t have it, I will. Didn’t you ever lick the spoon when you baked with your mum as a kid?”
“Mum and I never really did that kind of stuff together.”
He hesitates with a spatula in hand and frowns at me. “Really? I thought everyone did that.”
I shake my head and lick the back of the spoon. His hooded gaze tracks the sweep of my tongue.
“Good?”
“Yum,” I reply around a mouthful of wooden spoon.