Yet even though I wasn’t on top of my game, I just can’t seem to shake these thoughts of her. They chase me home as I leave the arena. They follow me along the highway as I drive. They whisper in my ear as I park my car in the garage and head into my quiet home.
I should review the to-do list for tomorrow morning. Do some light yoga. Ice my shoulder since my shoulder’s always sore.
But nope, as soon as I’m inside, I set the basting brush in my nightstand drawer. Put the towel next to it. Then, I take the panties out of my pocket and put them on top of the nightstand. I get ready for bed, and when I get under the covers, I grab the panties, bring them to my nose, and inhale them for a good long time.
Long enough that I replay her coming undone that afternoon.
That I rewind the sounds of her pleasure and picture the way she looks, blissed out and beautiful, as she comes.
I’m a grown-ass man spending the night with a pair of stolen underthings, hoping to catch the fading scent of a woman. This is beyond pathetic.
And yet, I don’t stop till I imagine her spread out here on my bed, legs wrapped tight around my head, fingers gripping my hair, calling my name.
The fridge is humming, cooling drinks. The café tables are polished, inviting soon-to-arrive customers. The mismatched plates from Reprise are stacked and ready to hold cakes, bars, and cookies. The speakers are itching to pump playlists, which I’ve programmed. The shelves are stocked with merch. And they’re apropos because we have our Fuck Mornings line of tees, mugs, and plates, with the swear word spelled with an asterisk. That’s the point of Afternoon Delight, after all. A bakery for those who want a fresh treat in the afternoon or evening too.
And I’m yawning.
Maybe in retrospect we should have picked a date to open that wasn’t after a night game, but there aren’t that many days like this—Saturdays, when my whole day is free.
Which means I’m here at the crack of dawn hanging this cake chandelier. It arrived yesterday—a surprise thing Mabel ordered. She said she found it late one night on an online shopping bender. It’s thrifted, pink, and painted like an old-fashioned, over-the-top frilly cake with chandelier teardrops hanging from the upside-down tiers.
“It’s so kitschy and cute, I can’t stand it,” Mabel told me.
The problem is you have to turn off the power to the circuit breaker to install it, so I’m here fuck-all early, mounting a cake chandelier to the ceiling.
As I finish adjusting the chain so the chandelier will hang at just the right length, I think about Riggs’s question on the plane about the pressure of being good enough to play, the ribbon Mabel’s going to wear in her hair, and whether this chandelier chain is the right length. My head’s a mess, thoughts yanking in too many different directions.
Fuck.
If I don’t concentrate, this light monstrosity will turn into a smashed chandelier. I can’t stand it for real, but Mabel loves it, and that’s all that matters.
I climb down the ladder, grab the chandelier from the floor where it’s resting, and haul it back up. It’s not heavy, so that’s good. I spend the next thirty minutes wiring it up, and it takes so much focus I can barely think of Mabel and how she looks under a kitchen towel.
Edible.
When I’m done, I install the bulbs, then restore power at the circuit breaker and pray hard when I flick the switch.
Let there be light!
I give a fist pump. Mabel will be happy, and that’s good.
I picture her reaction, and I start to let go of some of this tension. If only I can keep it at bay during the next game.
But first, I go home and catch a few more hours of shut-eye. Well, there are benefits to our late morning store hours.
Around ten, I roll into the bakery with bouquets of irises, and I’m greeted by the warm, inviting scent of melting chocolate and mouth-watering sugary flour. My heart rate starts to settle. Tension begins to melt off.
It falls to the floor when Mabel strides out from the kitchen and into the bakery, her gaze landing on the flowers. “You really did it,” she says, with something like wonder in her voice.
I cock my head, giving her areallylook. “What do you take me for? A man who doesn’t keep his promises?”
She wraps a hand around my biceps. “I love them. They’re my favorite,” she says, but she’s looking at me, not the flowers, and my heart does a funny little jump.
“I’m glad,” I mumble, since I really,reallyneed to be careful around Mabel.
“I’ll get some vases. I picked some up at the thrift shop just for this,” she says, and returns a minute later with three vases filled with water. We put the irises in them and set them on the pink tables. I watch her as she arranges them, positioning them just so, moving each one an inch farther away, an inch closer till they’re perfect. She steps back and releases a satisfied breath, clearly pleased with her work. “I love it.”
And I can’t stop looking at her. The way she works, the way she smiles, the way she wants this to succeed.
