I pad back into the living room and make eye contact with the man who saved me, the one who seems annoyed at having to do so. “What’s your name?”
“Liam Murphy.” With strong emphasis, he adds, “No more Madonna.”
2
unwitting test subject
Lorien
For the record, it’s a pain in the backside to have problems during a move. The move is trouble enough, even if it was just from my apartment downtown. The idea the moving company wanted to confiscate my belongings due to “breach of contract” was absurd. That’s not considering an attempted kidnapping, or worse, by their employees and… it’s been a heck of a week. A quick call to a social media goddess friend of mine and things got better fast.
It seems my photos, met with additional ones Liam took of the perpetrators and their IDs, along with video of them entering my home with a knife, went a long way in the media and online. The owners of the moving company were quick to dismiss any breach language and have my things in place prior to the authorities impounding the vehicle.
They asked me to sign a hold-harmless waiver and a non-disclosure agreement, both of which I declined, because screw them.
It’s Friday afternoon. I’ve owned my place for a week, lived here for six days, and haven’t once graced my sound system with the goodness that is Madonna or any other strong woman who followed in her glorious footsteps for that matter. Liam seemed adamant about his disdain for the Material Girl, and I’m trying to be a good neighbor. He poked someone’s eye out to save me after all…
Adding the flour mixture, I set the mixer to combine the ingredients, only to be met with a poof of white that settles all over… everything.
Me. My counters. My floors. Everywhere.
No amount of cleaning this kitchen works after I bake. One hundred years from now, whoever buys this house will still be dealing with the residue of my baking attempts.
It doesn’t matter, though, because the tatted neighbor, Liam, is getting baked goods as thanks for saving me. Last time I’d baked him chocolate chip cookies, and he only said, “That’s unnecessary,” and not a word more as he took them from me. But he did look me up and down as if he would eatmeand not because I was covered in flour.
I’m not prepared for that kind of man—the brave savior who looks like sex and says no more words than are exactly necessary to get across his point. But he’ll have never-ending baked goods for as long as I live here, since move-in day lives in infamy in my heart and on repeat in my head.
An hour later, I knock on his door only to be met with a disembodied voice. “Hello?”
“It’s Lorien.” I raise the plate as if he can see me. “I brought you some banana nut muffins.”
A mechanical whirling meets my ears as he says, “I’m not home, but the door’s unlocked.”
“I— I’ll just leave them on your kitchen counter, okay?”
“’Kay. Thanks.”
I walk into the still-dark townhouse and practically need my phone’s flashlight feature to see. I debate what’s up with this man not opening his blinds as I slip into the kitchen and leave the muffins on the counter.
There in a frame is a photo of the man whose house I’m standing in with his arm around a stunning redhead. She’s tall, elegant, and smiles at him as if he’s her favorite person on the planet. A blinding diamond ring on her finger catches the sun and starbursts out with a rainbow of light. On his other side is a blond man, taller than Liam by an inch or two, holding a woman with long brown hair in a white gown with a bouquet of pink peonies.The bride and groom don’t seem to notice the other participants, but it’s evident they’re all close.
A hollowness gnaws at my gut and disappointment overwhelms me. Liam is married—obviously so. Of course, he is, and to a stunning woman at that. She looks like she stepped off a runway to stand at his side and I… Well, that doesn’t matter. I don’t want anything to do with a married man.
I’m out the door when the lock whirls back into place. How did he know?
I want to shout at his house, shout in his face, shout that he’s married, and ask why he accepts my baking. What a jerkwad. That woman deserves better than a man who cheats. I flip my middle fingers at his front door and stomp home.
Liam
Lorien is a looker. And she’s pissed, but I have no clue why. I’m the one stuck eating her attempts at baking. Last Sunday it was chocolate chip cookies. The bottoms were burned and the middle was raw, and it’s all the same, because she must’ve mixed up the sugar and the salt or something equally as egregious. I took a huge bite and was lucky I was close enough to spit out the offending food and rinse my mouth out. They looked good but tasted terrible.
No amount of water fixed the flavor, so I burned my tongue off with super strong mouthwash. I’d say she’s trying to poison me with her terrible cooking, but I watched her make the muffins and nothing indicates she’s trying to kill me.
Don’t judge me. Yes, I watched. The cameras went up quickly and easily when she went to work. I’m not that much of a creeper—they’re not in her bathroom, bedroom, or closet. But after watching her shake her perfect, round ass on the front steps, I wasintrigued. Knowing what played out after made me curious and not just a little concerned.
Mostly because she’s right next door, and I don’t need any more eyes on me, much less attention from the wrong sorts of people. And those movers were the wrong sorts of people.
Watching her bake is an experience. She wears more flour than ever ends up in the mixer for one. I’d think she’d notice since she weighs everything. Not a cup here or a tablespoon there, but with a zeroed-out scale and exact weights of ingredients…. Exact weights that end up splattered or in flight.
