I’ve been pining after Natalia Mae Davis-Jeong since I was sixteen and I don’t think she ever once noticed me. At first, I’d tease about having a crush; I’d ask her out to a movie, make it sound like a joke, and she’d tell me she wasn’t into blonds. I’d ask,“Are you sure, because I’m a catch?”just to get a rise, and she’d shoot those daggers from her eyes.
And I swear that glare still turns me on.
Her bakery, The Black Cat, is perfectly her with checkered floors, chairs and tables with white chipped paint that are meant to look rustic, fresh purple flowers replaced every week, and her pastries laid out under a long display glass. Each cupcake is topped with frosting of all different colors—including black, purple, and green.
I walk in sometimes, even if she isn’t there, just so I can be somewhere near her—or in a space that I knowshe’s been in. Sometimes I smell her and I try to follow the smell like a cartoon character flying through the air, chasing that string of air flowing into their noses. And when she’s there, I try to take my time—look at her, talk to her,flirtwith her.
So, when I walked in the other day, her presence pulled me right to her, like there was a leash around my neck. Then I saw her dads sitting across from her and I froze—just slightly—until I saw her leg shaking and hands trembling on her lap, and I knew she needed some sort of saving. Then her dads spotted me and said I was her boyfriend, and my only thought was, “This is the closest I’ll ever get to that.”
So, no, it wasn’ton purpose. But this little game of pretend is like breadcrumbs for my hungry heart.
For tonight, I have some of my best sous-chefs working on the meals, and my best pastry chef for this weekend’s dessert specials. I’ve blocked off a table in the back that I personally like the most because of the decor in that section—the mix of pink and purple flowers twined together and hanging around bulb string lights that brighten the area.
I’m setting our table with glasses, napkins, utensils, and menus when the wide, rustic wooden door of the restaurant swings open.
Natalia, who can only be described as a literal goddess, strides in toward where I stand, wearing a beautiful, lilac dress with a black coat hanging from her shoulders, and white sandal heels on her feet.
Her long spirals are shiny and defined, all tossed to the side and cascading down the right side of her head.
If I were an artist, I’d mold her figure out of clay, paint it, and draw it on every napkin and sheet of paper I could find before putting it on display for anyone to see. If I were a poet,I’d write bleeding poems of her beauty, of her heart and mind. But somehow all of that would be a waste of time because nothing—absolutelynothing—would compare to and capture what she looks like through human eyes.
“Hey,” she says.
“H—” My breath gets trapped in my throat. “You look beautiful, Natalia.”
“I…You…” Her magic eyes roam down my body, undoubtedly perusing my outfit.
“Beautiful.” I breathe again, still struck with awe. I could fall to my knees.
Natalia’s eyes flit to mine again and her lips part for a split second before she murmurs, “Stop.”
I clear my throat. “Where are your dads?”
Gracefully, she removes her coat, and gently lays it across the booth side of the table. “Probably still at Meredith and Marilyn’s.” She sighs. Natalia stands on white heels, in the lilac dress that molds to her hourglass figure, fitting snuggly around her breasts and waist, flaring at her hips. “They’ve probably decided to sleep on a bigger bed after all this time.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, still fighting the urge to drop to my knees or throw her over my shoulder and take her home so I can strip her naked and worship her the way she is meant to be.
“I need a drink. Do you need a drink?” Natalia steps around me, through the influx of diners entering with and without reservations, and makes herself at home behind the bar.
One of my bartenders glances at Natalia and I give him an,it’s okay,signal. Natalia scans each liquor bottle—cheapestto most expensive—and she happens to land on our most expensive vodka.
There’s a dangerous glint in her eyes as she finds herself a shot glass and fills it to the rim. “I’d drink from the bottle if you didn’t have this stupid tap thingy in it.”
She slams the glass bottle and throws the shot back. No reaction—no shudder or grimace.
“Natalia—”
She slams a fresh shot glass on the bar and fills it with vodka, excess liquid spilling over the edge until she refills her own glass. She edges the new glass toward me and lifts her own, waiting with a lifted brow.
I wish she’d just talk to me and tell me why this dinner seems so difficult for her. I really didn’t understand. She was already lying to her parents; I thought stepping in would help. I overstepped, I know that. She just?—
“Are you going to take it or not?” Natalia snaps.
I sigh and reach for the shot glass. I clink mine with hers, earning myself a feeble smile before she tosses it back—no reaction from her again. No tell that it burns on its way down or stings a bit in her stomach, only a stoic expression while my face twists.
“I don’t like vodka,” I say, my voice hoarse from the burn, and clear my throat.
Natalia smiles, the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes, and turns toward the selection of liquor. “That’s okay. Let’s see, we have Johnny Walker, Don Julio…Patrón…”
