The Passionate Mistake (17 page)

“
No, none of that. Biscuits!” she said, leaping to her feet and dancing out of reach. “What do you want me to do?”

He sighed in resignation,
followed her to the kitchen and went to his small collection of cookbooks. Most of his recipes came straight out of his head, but, “Baking is a science. We need a precise recipe. What do you want to make, exactly?” He put two books on the counter, and gestured that she should pick something from one of them.

The Joy of Baking and the Edmonds Cookbook.
She eyed them uneasily and made no move. “I don’t know. Something simple. You choose?”

He sighed again and stepped forward to begin flicking through the Edmonds Cookbook.
“Afghans? Anzacs? Gingernuts? Peanut Brownies?”

“Not crispy.
Decadent.”

“Custard Kisses?
Melting Moments?”

“Oh
yes
! Melting Moments!” That was a name she remembered from years ago.

“I don’t know if I’ve got icing sugar,” he said, going off to rummage in a store cupboard and eventually emerging with a small bag he emptied into a measuring cup. “A little scant, but it will do. All right then.
Biscuits.” He slapped his hands together and rubbed them, getting into the spirit of things.

“Melting Moments!” she declared happily, enjoying the way it sounded.

“Melting Moments,” he agreed.

They measured and mixed, squabbled over quantities as they adjusted for the small quantity of icing sugar, and laughed and dusted
cornflour over each other. He bossed her around, insisting she cream the butter and sugar until it was lighter and fluffier.

“More! More,
” he said, “or they’ll be Leaden Moments.”

“Steel-Toed Moments.”

“Granite Moments.”

They debated over the exact size of the ‘large marbles’ the recipe book described, eventually rollin
g a range of sizes, his smooth, hers more lumpy and misshapen.

“Mangled Moments,” he said, looking down his nose.

“Monet’s Moments,” she defended, and when he looked puzzled, she clarified: “You know. Impressionistic.”

“Marginal Moments.”

She fetched a fork, floured it and – as the recipe specified, flattened one each of her and his ‘marbles’, after which they looked approximately the same.

“Matching Moments,” she said in triumph. He harrumphed.
She squashed a few more and then he joined her until they all wore impressions from the tines of the forks.

While the
biscuits were baking the two of them sat together on the tiled floor, gazing at them through the oven door. He held her hand and played gently with her fingers.

“I haven’t baked anything since mum died
,” she said. He stilled for a moment, then resumed his absentminded caress. “She loved baking things. There were always tins full of stuff. Cakes, biscuits, slices and crackers. I always took it for granted. As you do, when you’re just a kid. To me, packet biscuits seemed like the treat. They came covered in chocolate and so on. Mum’s were always there. You could depend on them. The tin was never empty. And then she died, and after that it was always empty.” 

“My mum has always said baking for your kids is like
mixing up a whole lot of smiles,” he said. “You make them, and hand them out, and with every one there comes a smile. Or when she put something baked into our lunchboxes she’d tell us: ‘I’ve put some kisses in your lunch box,’ and we knew that meant there was some sweet treat in there for us. Sometimes I’d look right away, so I could look forward to eating it at morning tea time. And sometimes I’d save the surprise. I go to visit her now and she’s all about vege stir fries and soups and lentil this and bean burger that and tofu the other thing. Working hard to keep herself and dad young forever.”

“Which would you be? If you were the parent, would you hand out biscuits or tofu?”

“I’d like to say it would be health food all the way, but . . . well. When you love people you do tend to indulge them. Even if it’s bad for them.” He spoke lightly, as if his words carried no weight. To her they seemed very meaningful, though she hadn’t quite tracked down the specific impression she had received before he started sucking on her fingers again, and distracted her totally.

“
Mmm. You’re all sweet,” he said.

“Can’t say I hear that a lot.”

“But you are. You’re sweet. You’re just slow to warm up.”

“O ho!” she said with heavy irony, recalling her unabashed seduction of him. “Slow to warm up, is it?”

“You know what I mean. There’s a big difference between being blazing hot – which you most surely are – and being tender and vulnerable. But underneath all this savvy, tough girl exterior you’re just a real sweetheart.” He punctuated his statement with a kiss on her nose, and she smelt the scent of sugar on his breath.

She wanted to be this lovely person he described, but she simply wasn’t. His words made her
gut churn, and tears crowded into her eyes. She tilted her head away and lowered her eyelids to hide from him, her hand passive in his.

“Hey you.
Don’t go away. I don’t bite.”

She didn’t speak, just
sat there, feeling despair crowd her, the lump in her throat rising until it was almost choking.

It was so hard to want this so much, to want someone, to want
him
to know her like this, want to be near her like this, know her like this. Hard to want it when she walked such a precarious line between what he knew and what she hid from him, well aware it would all be gone soon.

And somehow speaking of M
um, giving space to that other bone-deep loss and longing made it truly heart wrenching to know Mike would soon be gone too.

Lost to her.
She felt the moment approaching.

She would lose him. She would be alone again.

“Kate? Sunshine? Why are you so sad?”

She snuffled, wiped her nose on the
back of her hand, stared steadfastly at the biscuits in their hot oven. “Sorry. I just . . . it’s just . . . It’s Mum. I’m just thinking about Mum.”

He put his hands around her waist and
pulled her across the floor towards him, closing the few inches that separated them, nestling her into the crook between his legs and leaning back against the cupboard doors. She resisted for a moment then relaxed against him, giving him her weight, taking the comfort he offered, unable to turn away from him no matter the pain approaching.

“Remembering her this way can be a celebration if you want it to be. You can celebrate her love for you every time you bake something you made together once. It can be a blessing in your life.”

“Mmmm.” Her head lolled back on his shoulder, feeling leaden with her sinuses crowded with tears. She considered his words. “I should do this for the kids. My brother and sister. They should know mum was like she was. I mean, maybe they already do. It’s not like we talk about it much. But if they don’t, they should know. And maybe I could show them what it was like when she and I made stuff in the kitchen. There was a bunch of things we did for them when they were little. I can remember birthday parties where we spent a whole week preparing beforehand, putting things away in containers and in the freezer, all ready for the big day.” She paused, wiped her nose again. “They should know mum made a fuss over them.”

“They should. It sounds like a good idea to me.”

The bell rang a melodic chime to tell them their twenty minutes were up. Mike extracted himself, leaving her propped on the cupboards with a kiss on the crown of her head, sliding the trays out of the oven with a heatproof mitt and putting them down on the granite bench top to cool.

She joined him as he c
arefully transferred them to wire racks. They were scorching hot.

“They need to cool before we can ice them
,” he said.

“Thanks for doing this with me, Mike. Thanks for humoring me.”

“You’re welcome. Anytime.”

“Memorable Moments,
” she said.

He took her hand in his, offering
comforting. “Magnificent Moments.”

She chuckled quietly then gave a last loud and unromantic snuffle.
“Maudlin Moments.”

He smiled and kissed her
, soft and tender.

Chapter
Seventeen

“I didn’t unde
rstand why he liked her so much,” said Kate.

“She was fairly spiky. Maybe he saw more in her though,” said Mike.

“I think it was cruel how she strung him along like that.”

“Yeah, she did play him for a fool. Used him and dumped him.”

“She just wasn’t sympathetic enough. She was so shallow and bad-tempered. She was picking a fight every ten minutes.”

“Maybe that’s the scriptwriter’s idea of how yo
u create drama in a story,” said Mike.

“Maybe.
I have to say though, all that squabbling just irritated me.”

“So okay, it was a bad pick. I guess that’s what I deserve for trying to choose a chick flick. You can choose next time.”

“Aww, you chose that one for me? That’s sweet,” she said.

“Of course.
I know my duty as a red-blooded male hoping to get some action on date night. Romance all the way, baby.”

“Okay, that makes it a bit less sweet, it’s true. But still, you do score points for effort.”

“How do I cash in my points, then?” he growled suggestively, pulling her in close to his side with a leer. She laughed. They were walking down Queen Street away from the movie theatre, sauntering the main street of Auckland, seeing the sights. It was ten pm on Saturday evening and the crowds were high-spirited and happy, with young people dressed for clubbing just starting to dominate the scene.

“Cash in your points?
Hmmm. Let me see,” said Kate, pretending to consider. In fact the idea was already in her head. The real question was: ‘Am I ready for this?’ And truly, she didn’t really know the answer. On the other hand, it wasn’t a definite ‘no’. Perhaps that was the best ‘yes’ she was going to receive.

“
Weeeell,” she drawled, leading him around the corner into a side street and a little way up the hill, “I know a quiet place where we can discuss it further . . .” She watched him glance up and recognize the street, the shop frontage, her apartment building. He didn’t seem surprised, and she wondered if this possibility had occurred to him when he suggested a stroll.

He had never been into her space before. No man had, who wasn’t family. The postage-sized apartment was her sanctuary, hers and hers alone. A short walk to the university, in the centre of the city, to her it represented freedom and adulthood, adventure and solitude. All the things she had desperately longed for when she left home at eighteen.

She had managed to steer her social life elsewhere, to keep this small space private and just for her. It was strange to contemplate him there.

Strange and exciting.

“I’ve had a lovely time,” she said coyly in a breathless voice, batting her eyelids. Speculation dawned on his face, his eyes narrowing, a little smile playing about his lips. “Perhaps you’d like to come upstairs for some . . . coffee,” she continued, all insinuation.

“This is all so sudden. I mean, we hardly know each other.” There was a hint of flutter about him, like some Southern Belle, and Kate smothered a
laugh. 

“But we could know each other so much better,” she suggested, and walked her fingers up his arm. Once they reached his chin she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them next, so she gripped his shoulder and leaned into him, raising her face to be kissed. He obliged with alacrity, his kiss both passionate and sweet. It did evoke the sensation of innocence, of new beginnings, of a first date and the attendant eager discovery.

“Your wiles have led me astray. But will you still respect me in the morning?” he asked.

“That depends how skilful you are,” she responded wickedly, using her access card to enter the foyer. She took him by the hand and pulled him in after her, laughing with him and kissing him as she pressed the button to call the lift.

“I am caught in your toils. Ensnared,” he muttered, his face buried in the crook of her neck, as he bit and then sucked her tender flesh in a way that was anything but innocent. She felt a pang as he let it slip away, the hint of freshness, in response to her jokes. It
was
easier to be silly and play at this than to treat it like the serious moment it was for her. Serious and vulnerable.

But he had been so tender and respectful with her, always. He deserved for her to trust him a little more.
To let him in a little, into these private spaces of hers.

So she broke off, stepped a small distance away from him, keeping hold of his hand and meeting his eyes
with a small smile that didn’t try to hide behind banter. He was puzzled for a moment by the shift, but as almost always he read her intent, matching his mood to hers. Such a gentleman, in the truest sense of the word: gentle with the hearts of others; watchful and quick to respond.

As the numbers above the door illuminated to show the progress of the lift, she held the eye contact. Nor did she let it break when the doors slid open and she pulled him in after her.

There was a symbolism here in this act, for her. Letting him in; lowering her guard, her defenses. She didn’t think he could understand all that without her explaining, and there was no way she wanted to do that right now, or perhaps ever.

But
she
knew. She knew what she meant by it, and she did it anyway.

She had to drop her gaze to insert the key into the lock. She switched on the light and then watched his face anxiously to see what he would think of the space. He looked at it carefully, scanning the room, taking an impression. She transferred her gaze between the room and him, trying to see it anew, as he might see it, and
observe his reaction at the same time.

It was peaceful here, pared back, soft leafy greens the minimal accents to the dominant
colors of sand and stone. She had worked with the bland color scheme of the rental to create an oasis of calm, with subtle textures of fabric and weave in the soft furnishings. She was tidy here, orderly, in a small space where a little clutter could easily dominate. It had taken time and effort to find the right storage systems to fit the space so everything could be organized and away.

The stainless steel in her tiny kitchenette gleamed. Why shouldn’t it? It was hardly used. “Coffee?” she asked, and his
: “No,” in response evoked their first night together, when a similar question had been asked, and received the same answer.

But he injected a different feeling to the one word. Where she had been in a rush, eager to satisfy a fierce appetite, he was intent, unwilling to be distracted from his focus on her, on them, by something so mundane.

She didn’t understand it, this ability of his to make a wonder of a tiny moment. She didn’t know how he knew to do it, what trick of nuance or expression to use. She only knew the feelings he evoked inside her of peace and excitement, certainty and terror, a cascade of confusion, and inevitability. He held her to the very edge of herself, frightened, and soothed her.

He was a mystery to her. She was always one step behind.
Always chasing. And always finding him waiting for her with hand outstretched, ready to catch her.

Even here, bringing him onto her own turf, she felt welcomed by him. She considered leading him to the couch, making conversation, introducing a sense of normality to the evening. But really she hadn’t finished. Leaving aside the bathroom –
small and utilitarian – there was still her bedroom.

She drew him there, again flicking on the light, even as she
turned off the one behind them and plunged the living room back into a dimness lit by the lights of the city through the plate glass windows.

If the living room was subdued, her bedroom was an explosion of
color, a riot of pattern, of voluptuously ornate, tasseled treasures hung from walls or ceiling, draped over the oriental screens, thrown casually over the bars of her four-poster bed. It was a cornucopia for the eyes, filled with items that had delighted her once and still.

No ugliness was allowed in this room. Only things she considered beautiful,
visual poetry.

She let go of his hand, crossed to the curtains and closed them, shutting out the city, enclosing them in this small, intimate space. The only furniture was the bed and the tiny table next to its head, with room for a single candle and a book.

She lit the candle, an answering glow springing to life in the reflection from the mirrored sliding door of the recessed closet, and turned off the light. Then she sat on the bed, shifted so she was in the middle of it, and looked at him, letting him see her in the midst of her most private space, decorated only for her enjoyment.

Maybe he understood.
Maybe it meant something to him too, for he came cautiously, big in the small room, to sit beside her, to move with her as she lay back on the pillows, wrapping her up in his arms. She stroked a tentative pattern on his chest, then started to unbutton his shirt.

He was quiescent, letting her lead. She revealed his body slowly, almost reverently, adding him to her collection of beautiful things kept here for her pleasure.

“You look good here,” she said in absent continuation of her thought, most of her attention on the way the candlelight picked out the planes and hollows of muscle on his chest, the warm smoothness of him under her hand and then her cheek. “I should keep you here . . .” and she bit back the ‘forever’ just in time.

“Another hapless male, dragged home to your lair,” he said lightly, his smooth voice soft and relaxed.

“The first actually,” she told him the truth impulsively, casting a cautious glance up and sideways to read his expression. He stiffened and looked wary. Was it because she made too much of having him here? Or because he didn’t believe her after the way she seduce
d him the first time they ‘met’? She lay her hands on his chest and propped her chin on them, looking straight at him so he could see her sincerity, feeling achingly vulnerable in case she had guessed wrong.

He was still for a long moment, then smiled slightly, cautiously, and cupped her cheek in one large palm in a gesture she interpreted as acceptance of her words.

But it was all too serious, too intense for her, so she broke the moment by surging up to take his mouth in a heady kiss, reverting to the language they spoke so fluently to each other: sex. Her hands, slow before, were urgent and feverish now, hot to get at him and bury her thoughts and uncertainty in that heedless rush of sensory overload.

He took her passion, accepted as he always did,
then returned it to her molded into something more refined, with undercurrents and nuances of tenderness and sanctity. Maybe it was the way he touched her, almost worshipping, hungry and reverent by turns as the moments slid away, as if his head was at war with his body, but both of them fighting to be near her, around her, inside her.

It burnt her up, made her insane with arousal, hot and wet and reckless. She moaned with her first orgasm and screamed with her second, feeling the change as his control gave way and
he plunged into her wildly, driving himself to the brink and over, his groan dark and guttural.

She sighed in satisfaction, pulling him in tight, her arms and legs wrapped around him, enjoying his shudders as aftershocks swept through him. ‘I’ll keep you forever,’ she mouthed into his hair, not daring even to breathe the words, but wishing fiercely that they could be true.