“Enjoy your treat, dirty boy,” he tells me, completely ignoring my barb. “I know how much you love licking up cream…”
Fucking hell.I’ll never be able to look at an eclair without springing a boner again. All I can think about as I take in the sight of that sticky fudge icing, and the splurging sweetened cream, and the cholesterol-packed pastry that’ll require at least an hour’s workout to combat is how fucking hot it would be for Jazz to hold me down and shove that whole thing in my mouth, forcing me to eat it. I’d probably throw it all straight back up, but for some reason that prospect only makes it hotter.
And then when a new thought enters my mind—that maybe Jazz could empty his load onto the pastry first—I’m lucky not to cream my sweats.
I wipe a hand over my face and let out a soft groan.
“You okay?” Blake asks, arching a brow at me.
I give a sharp shake of my head, reminding myself morning tea at my brother’s granite-topped dining table isn’t the time or place for indulging in creepy fantasies, especially with my kids sitting just across from me. “Just tired.”
“You got in pretty late last night,” he comments. “You sure you’re up for the hockey?”
I somehow manage to tamp down my blush as my thoughts fly back to the reason for getting home so late. I don’t attempt to provide an explanation, instead opting to brush the comment aside and answer the question. “I’ll be fine for the hockey, don’t you worry.”
The exchange with Blake has momentarily distracted me from my creepy thoughts, but when I glance down at the plate Owen has just slid in front of me, I have to fight to keep them from emerging again. I figure the only way to deal with this is to make this stupid eclair disappear as quickly as possible, so I pick up my cutlery and dig in.
“Oh my god, Uncle Blake, you do that too!” Ava cries in delight. “I can’t believe howsothe same you are right now.”
“I can’t believe how terrible young people’s use of syntax is right now,” Blake says dryly.
I let out a breath of laughter and glance to my right to see what Blake could be doing to prompt this level of excitement. As far as I can see, absolutely nothing. He’s just eating his eclair. Same as everyone else.
“Yeah, why do you do that?” Joel asks through a mouthful of pastry.
“They’re fighting the patriarchy,” Owen says wryly.
My brow furrows as I once again study my brother, not sure what all the fuss is about. And then it hits me.
And it hits Blake as well.
We each set our cutlery down and let out a groan, as though our realization has been perfectly synchronized.
“Okay, seriously, now this is getting creepy,” Ava says with a hint of wariness in her tone.
I sit back in my chair with a sigh, glancing briefly at my kids before turning sideways to catch Blake’s gaze. “You’ll have to explain it. I don’t want to traumatize them.”
He arches an eyebrow at me. “But you’re happy formeto traumatize them?”
I wave a dismissive hand. “Go for it.”
Truthfully, I doubt I’d be able to get through the explanation without turning fire engine red. I’d completely forgotten the reasoning behind my use of a knife and fork to eat these pastries, and for my very particular way of cutting them—first in half, then half again for each piece but on the diagonal this time. Which is exactly what Blake’s done with his. Now that Owen’s reminded me, however, it brings my creepy fantasy into a whole new, even more disturbing light.
“Okay, so you guys already know that Sunny’s a bit…”
“Crazy?” I supply dryly as he searches for the word.
“Principled,”he counters. “She has some strong feelings about a lot of things, and once she takes a stance it’s very difficult to get her to budge.”
Yeah, it’s definitely better that Blake’s telling this story. My version wouldn’t have been quite so…generous.
“Yeah, we’ve got that impression,” Joel says with a soft chuckle and a sideways glance at Ava. “What does this have to do with your freakish way of eating chocolate eclairs?”
Blake grins. “One of her convictions is that the overabundance of phallic-shaped foods is indicative of the patriarchal dominance in society. So she didn’t want us eating any of them.”
I pick up the thread, listing off examples. “Hot dogs, popsicles, churros, sausage, basically any kind of meat served on a stick…et cetera, et cetera.” Just when you think my childhood couldn’t get weirder…
“But as you might be able to guess,” Blake continues, “she made an exception for eclairs, but they had to be cut like this.” He gestures at our plates, where we each have a single triangle of our respective eclairs remaining.
