“Then how do you know I like to bake?”
“If you want to find out about a person, the first place you look is on their social media pages. That’s bounty hunting 101.”
My body relaxes and I unclench my jaw. Pictures of my pound cakes are about the only thing I post on my Instagram page, especially when I’m proud of how they turn out. Once in a while, I’ll even get an order for one like from my neighbor in Ray’s building.
“So you were on my Instagram page?”
“Your last post featured you trying a chocolate cake recipe, although you never posted the end result. How’d it turn out?”
That’s the recipe I was making my last night in the apartment with Ray.
The night he hit me.
“I made the batter, but didn’t get a chance to finish it.”
“Why?”
“Ray and I had an argument that night. I was too upset.”
“So you were baking it the night he put his hands on you?”
I look down at my bare feet in embarrassment, because while I realize that Ray’s abuse should not be my shame to bear, I carry it all the same.
“Yes.”
Bronx’s penthouse has a modern open design which allows us to see each other as I unpack the bags. It’s a bit unsettling and I feel the need to nervously talk since he’s taken his eyes off the television and onto me.
“How’d you know what to get?” I ask, impressed with the assortment of groceries he purchased, including an eighteen pack of organic brown eggs.
“It’s chocolate cake,” he says as if it’s commonplace to know the ingredients of a cake.
“Do you bake?”
“Do I look like I bake?” he chuckles as he spreads his long, muscular limbs out in front of the chair and onto the matching ottoman.
I try not to ogle him but it’s hard not to stare when Bronx sits, when he stands, when he stretches, and even when he breathes. I’ve dated a few guys and been in one serious relationship, but I’ve never been as physically attracted to a man as I am to him.
He’s the kind of man you see in a bar and know for sure that by the end of his first drink, five women will have given him their phone numbers and by his final drink he’s leaving the bar with one of them, if he didn’t already get some in a bathroom stall.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
Bronx lifts his t-shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor and I swear it looks like the man is doing it in slow motion with fans blowing and theme music (all in my head, of course).
“What?” I fumble between my dirty thoughts and the actual words coming out of mouth. “Mind what?”
“My shirt,” he clarifies. “I keep the house at this temperature for my tree, so I’m pretty much shirtless all the time.”
“Your tree?”
I desperately try not to give any of the tattoos on Bronx’s bare chest eye contact because each one seems to bulge and ripple with each maneuver of his body. Unfortunately, I’m making it quite obvious that I want to look anywhere but at him.
Way to play it cool, Karma.
He cocks his head to the side and stares as if he’s amused with my reaction, but he doesn’t speak on it.
“The palm tree in the corner. It was a gift from my aunt.”
I stare over at the huge palm tree which anchors the corner of the room. I don’t know much about plants at all and didn’t even realize the thing was real.
