Page 30 of Puck Me Twice
“Oh?”
“Cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping.” He makes a face. “I hate grocery shopping.”
Okay, irrational jealousy, calm the fuck down.
“Yeah, I suppose you would.” He probably gets mobbed by fans, even in his quiet little neighborhood. “So Brigitte—is she here often?”
“Whenever I’m gone overnight.” He cocks his head. “Everything is handled by email. I put what I need in a note and she handles it.”
Now it makes sense why there were fancy soaps and shampoos in the bathroom and clothes in the dresser. If she’s his regular house sitter, it would make sense that she keeps some things here.
Making my way to the fridge, I’m surprised by how clean everything is inside. It’s full of fresh vegetables, already chopped and prepared in glass containers. A shelf contains brown paper packages labeled chicken and salmon, and a small basket of fancy European cheeses.
He has a porn-worthy refrigerator.
On the door is a bottle of Oreo-flavored creamer. Damn. I might like Brigitte. First she uses nice-smelling soaps, now she drinks good-tasting coffee?
Pouring some in my cup, I watch as the dark liquid joy turns a pale off-brown color. Now that I’m not playing lacrosse and watching every fucking calorie I eat, coffee with creamer is one of my favorite indulgences.
Sven moves to the eight-burner range. It’s top of the line, as are the rest of his appliances. Then again, if he likes to cook, that’s not much of a surprise.
“I feel like I should help. What can I do to help?”
Just as the words leave my mouth, the oven dings.
“Could you get that?” Sven pauses as he adds some butter to the pan.
Using the black pot holders beside the oven, I open the door and am assaulted by the heavenly scent of freshly baked bread.
My mouth waters. If this is what sleeping at Sven’s house is like, sign me the fuck up.
The dutch oven is heavier than I expected. Sven moves behind me, closing the oven door.
“You can set it here.” He points to the closest burner, which is the farthest from where he’s cooking.
“You bake bread?”
Sven shrugs. “It’s tasty.”
I blink at him. It’s tasty?
“There’s no point in keeping a starter if I don’t exercise it regularly.”
“Who are you?” I blurt.
His easy smile goes blank in an instant.
Quickly, I backtrack: “Fuck. No. I just—”
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I try to hide my wince.
“You’re not what I expected,” I admit.
“What did you expect?” His tone is careful as he adds broccoli and peppers to the sizzling pan.
“Just… not this.”
He looks over his shoulder at me, clearly unimpressed.
