“Trust me, I’m aware you don’t eat sugar. But I thought it was a lifestyle choice, not some kind of twisted aversion.”
He blinks at me and says, “Chocolate just doesn’t do anything for me.”
Chocolate just doesn’t do anything for him.
"I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” I say and resume stirring.
“Do you want help?” he asks with a sigh, eyeing the dirty bowls scattered across the counter. I try not to show my surprise at his offer, but judging by his frown, I’m not sure I succeed. “You look a little in over your head.”
“Help from a chocolate-hater?” I scoff. “No thanks.”
He gives me a look like he thinks I’m a crazy person. “Violet, you’re not serious.”
“And I’m not in over my head,” I say, gesturing around the kitchen. “This is all part of the process.”
“No need to get defensive. I’m trying to befriendly.” He throws up his hands. “But hey. Maybe this friendship thing was a shit idea. They can’t all be winners, can they?”
I grit my teeth, watching him as he starts to back out of the room. “Okay, wait!” He freezes, raising his eyebrows. “Alright. Fine. You can help with the frosting. Just give me a second.”
I finish up the cake mixture in a rush and set Landon up with the ingredients and measurements for the chocolate buttercream frosting the way I would a child. I explain exactly what to do and then start working on the ganache, watching him out of the corner of my eye to make sure he’s not taking any liberties with the directions. Despite his aversion to chocolate, he measures everything out with extreme care and precision, and I’m just a little bit impressed.
Taking a break, I pull out my phone to snap a few process pictures, careful to keep Landon out of frame. I can’t help myself, though. He’s standing over the mixture, shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, looking like a goddamn domestic wet dream, and I snap a photo. Just one.
“Did you ever consider modeling?” The question’s out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I scold myself.Filter, Violet. Filter.Because suggesting he should model means I think he’s attractive enough to do it.
Landon shoots me a look like I asked him to wear his underwear on the outside of his pants. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I had bigger aspirations than letting strangers ogle me all day like a prized pig.” He says it with conviction, sure, but there’s something off about his tone. Also, he won’t meet my eyes.
I squint at him. “What are you not saying?”
“Nothing,” he says too quickly.
"No. It’s something. You’re hiding something.”
Now he looks up, his expression way too innocent. “I’m not hiding anything,” he assures, but I don’t buy it.
“Alright. I guess I’ll just text Eli and ask him about this nonexistent modeling career. Just to double-check.” I tap my fingers in random patterns against my phone screen like I’m pulling up Eli’s contact information.
“Fine,” he snaps, and I pause my movements. I wait for him to continue, trying my absolute hardest not to start smirking in anticipation, because I can tell that what he’s about to say is going to be good. “Eli and I modeled for Ralph Lauren Kids when I was thirteen. Mostly catalog stuff. Nothing exciting. It was my mom’s idea.”
“Oh my god,” I say, because it’s better than I hoped. I grin shamelessly as I picture thirteen-year-old Landon Blair posing in a wide array of striped polos and boat shoes and sweater vests, clinging to the side of a sailboat with a moody expression on his baby face. “Can I see it? Do you have it? Can I Google it? I bet I can Google it.”
He glares at me. “No. And if you don’t wipe that stupid smile off your face right now, I’m dumping this shit in the trash.”
“That’s not something a friend would do, Landon,” I point out.
"Neither is pushing a subject I told you to drop, Violet.”
I sigh. “Fine. Fine. Forget it.”
“And you better not ask Eli later,” he warns.
“I won’t,” I tell him. “I won’t.”
I amdefinitelygoing to ask Eli later. I mean, really. How could I not?
