I throw my head back and laugh. “Please. She’ll get bored and move onto the next thing soon enough. Are you even listening to me? The competition is Clem and I tackling another challenge together. Like we’ve always done.”
“Not this again,” he huffs. “I was working for us—”
“Except for when you weren’t. Since Brittany didn’t cheat alone.”
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” He gestures toward me, flustered.
“I said what I said.” I meet his steady gaze without flinching.
He looks away. A small thrill rises up within me. “I don’t even know who you are anymore, Matilda.”
“You haven’t for a very long time. Are we done with this conversation now? I have work to finish before I can leave today.”
“She’s not going to hold back. I don’t want you to embarrass yourself on live television. Again.” And there’s the dig he always has to get in.
“Oh, I won’t be. Maybe remind your darling fiancée that everyone knows she was the other woman, and if anyone is looking bad right now ...” I trail off. He swears, and I smile. “Always lovely talking to you, Jackson. If there’s nothing else?”
“No.” He stalks away, but pauses at the door. “I miss the old Tilda.”
“I don’t.” And therein lay the main point of contention.
He leaves, and I exhale, slumping back into the office chair. One battle down. A zillion more to go.
ANDERS: Have you done your homework yet?
Matilda: What are we, in high school?
Anders: So that’s a no.
A giggle breaks free. I cover my mouth, horrified. No. I will not let this taskmaster charm me. When he wasn’t speaking lyrically about baking from the heart, he had me memorizing measurements and how oil and butter make the difference in the bake. He called it baking basics boot camp. I called it hell. We had an entire discussion on what a pinch meant. A pinch! I snicker, remembering his serious face. He had robust features, and his jawline did delicious things to my libido when it clenched. I wanted to be annoyed, but his big, brown eyes lit up when he got passionate.
The energy he gave off was infectious. I drank it up like a starved waif. Clearly, this blog was a true labor of love. It’s refreshing seeing someone go after their dream. If only it wasn’t in direct opposition to the lifestyle I wanted to live.
Matilda: You’re wrong. I did it.
Anders: Oh. What did you come up with?
He’d challenged me to find a cookie recipe I felt a personal connection to. It was a more challenging task than I imagined. Curling up beneath my soft unicorn blanket, I take another sip of my tea. The fire blazes merrily in front of me, crackling and popping in the background. Clem is sleeping, and this is the time I take for myself.
Matilda: Too much to text.
Anders: I’ll call.
My stomach does not flutter at the thought of this. When the phone vibrates, I count to three before I answer.
“Hey.” His rich tenor sends chills down my spine.
I close my eyes, imagining him. “Hey.”
“What was your pick?”
And it’s straight to business. Funny how you can want to strangle someone and listen to their deep voice because it does tingly things to your lady parts.
“I went to my mom’s and dug up an old box of family recipes. All the women have contributed to it through the years. It was strange feeling a connection to the women who’d come before me. They all had their own taste and ingredients they tended to use heavily.”
“That’s incredible. How far back did the recipes go?”
“Early nineteen hundred.” It feels good to share with someone who’s equally excited.