Laura Castoro - Icing On The Cake

“Three senses down, you’ve got two to go.”

“Okay, I love the tantalizing taste as a slice of bread reveals its nature as sourdough or poolish-based. Oh, and the crunch it makes when you take a bite.”

He looks amused. “I never thought of something as simple as bread delivering an orgasmic experience.”

What the heck? I lean close and touch his arm. “There are those who suspect that it was a pomegranate not an apple Eve plucked from the Garden of Eden. Imagine the possibilities of the pomegranate-seed loaf I’m working on.”

As he chuckles, I look over at the drink set before me and frown. “There’s fruit in my martini.”

“You’re a passionate and adventurous woman. Consider the possibilities of the cherry.”

He snags the cherry in my glass by the stem and jerks it out. “Observe the color—red. The texture—smooth. The shape—round.” He pops the cherry between his nice lips and rolls it around with the slow-motion deliberation, and then he chews as if he’s relishing every bite. “The texture is crisp, the taste sweet yet with a touch of…je nais c’est quoi.”

When he’s done I point and say, “You left the lemon rind.”

He reaches out with two fingers, as if to dredge my drink, but I move it out of his reach. “Okay, you win. I’ll taste it.” I close my eyes and take a sip.

“Well?”

“It’s all right.” It’s great! Of course, his demonstration with the cherry has me thinking more about what kissing him would taste like. A second more considering sip brings out the blend of flavors. “Very smooth.”

“To the perfect evening!” We clink glasses.

Might as well get the preliminaries over with. “Married or divorced?”

“Divorced.” He shakes his head. “That sounded bitter. I’m not. Make that not anymore.”

“You don’t have to explain. I’ve been there.”

“Was yours acrimonious?”

I pick up my glass. “What’s your definition of acrimonious?”

“Did it include defamation of character or destruction of property?” His tone is light. “Were weapons involved?”

I contemplate the slightly oiled surface of my martini with a small smile. “What’s your definition of weapons?”

His change of expression cracks me up. “Just kidding. So, what do you do?”

“Does it matter?”

“Actually, I couldn’t care less.” I finish off my perfect martini in two large swallows.

“Want to try another combination?” He points at my glass. “Or do you prefer more of the same?”

I meet his gaze and it’s like looking over the edge of a high cliff. Is this the next great man? If so, “More of the same please.”

“My pleasure and my treat.”

After that we chat about nothing in particular. He’s so easy to talk with. He tells a long story about his visit to a gin distillery. I listen only enough to make the occasional “Really?” or “You’re kidding” interjections. I’d rather admire the way his ears lie against his skull. And imagine how much fun it would be to follow with a finger the wave of his hairline from the temple to where it swoops up over an ear and then slips razor-edge perfect down the column of his neck. Something about the smooth, hairless slope of his nape makes me weak-kneed.

When I reach out and touch his wrist to emphasize a point, he flips his hand over and captures my fingertips and gives them a quick squeeze. Our gazes meet and hold just long enough.

“Have you considered broadening your business?” he asks after the third set of drinks arrives. I’ve been regaling him with tales of the No-Bagel Emporium.

“Only every other day.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Lack of capital. Lack of investors. Lack of distribution mechanism.”

“Ever think about doing a deal with a corporation for distribution?”

I make a face. “Tried that.”

“What happened?”

“Low-carb mania.”

I rest my chin on my hand, only inches from where his rests, and am delighted by how daring so simple an act seems. The slight tingling in the tip of my nose signals that we’re kissably close. Or, I’ve reached my martini limit.

He twists on his stool to fully face me. The result is my knees become nestled between his spread legs and I find it a little harder to keep my expression bland. “Is your product any good?”

“I’d match my bread against any bakery in the tri-state area.”

He laughs and it’s the most seductive thing. I feel this out-of-character-but-urgent desire to put my arms about his neck, and French-kiss him until we melt into a puddle on the floor.

A little perplexed by the force of my emotions, I look away from him. The truth is if I could have wild anonymous monkey sex with this man right this minute, I’d go for it.

I look up guiltily. “Did I just say something?”

He shakes his head. “But I’d give a dollar to hear what you’re thinking.”

Our gazes meet and I watch his pupils expand with the force of the desire in my expression. He’s going to say something, do something, I just know it.

Instead he picks up my glass and waggles it at the bartender. “I’m going to buy you one more, and then we’re going to say good night.”

I glance toward the door. Has the girlfriend arrived, after all? I don’t see anyone in particular, but then things have taken on a warm fuzzy glow. When I turn back he’s staring at me, and it hits me. I want this guy. “Why break up a nice evening?” I hope I don’t sound as giddy as I feel.

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