Page 64
It shows he is typing for a very long time until he replies again.
Web designer: May I ask how long you have been in the industry?
Does he mean cooking?
Cinnamon: I’ve had a penchant for it since my mom died. But only started solo with this website. Appreciate your help on it.
Way to go Cinnamon, trauma dump on the poor stranger.
Web designer: Do you feel like you don’t have any other choices?
Huh?
Cinnamon: I mean it’s all that I’m really good at. So I guess I do feel like it’s all I can do. But I also enjoy it…to a degree.
Web designer: You…you’re not what I expected.
My cheeks heat, but I don’t respond again.
Flipping to my email, I send one off to B.L.T.
Everything went well, I made curry and think they enjoyed it…I wasn’t able to serve dessert as they requested, but I left their food in the crockpot. Thanks again for helping to get me one! Also here is my Bitcoin info, if you could please send payment over ASAP.
-Cinnamon
There’s a whoosh of cold air, and I shut my laptop, turning around.
Orzo steps out of the elevator directly into the living room. He eats up the space between us.
Too fast for me to see what he is wearing.
Too quick to react.
And then he is dragging me out of the barstool, wrapping my legs around his hips.
He consumes me.
It is explosive.
Just as it was the first time.
His lips find my neck, and he sucks and bites the skin there.
I enjoy it for a single beat, before pushing him away. “You’re going to leave a mark,” I complain.
But he just laughs. “Cinnamon, sweet spicy Cinnamon, where have you been all my life?”
His eyes are hooded in his intent. My hands go up, one cupping his scratchy jaw, the other tangling in his hair.
It’s wet.
“Did you take a shower before getting home?”
He doesn’t answer, both his hands covering mine.
I eye the busted knuckles as he moves them, but don’t comment.
The scars that paint his bare arms intermingle with the tattoos.
