“Nope. This would be a first.”
“Oh.”
“I was just making some food, although it may not be very good.”
“Oh yeah? What did you make?” I scoot over to the edge of the bed and get to my feet. My body aches, making it difficult to stand.
By the look of discomfort on my face, I think he realizes my pain. “Where are you hurting?”
“Everywhere, but to be specific…my legs.” I touch my thigh and surely enough, the pain is radiating from there. I feel my face flush. Benjamin’s brows crease and he goes back to cooking. I think he’s trying to relieve the awkwardness.
Excusing myself, I limp to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly. After girding myself, I pull my dress up enough to see the dark purple bruises scattered along the insides of my thighs.
Oh my god.
I drop the material and cover my mouth in shock. I try to get ahold of myself.
You have a man out there that doesn’t need to go through this shit with you. Get yourself together, dammit!
I glance at my reflection in the mirror, nod, and open the door.
“So what are you making?” I ask with false brightness, coming up behind Benjamin.
“How bad is it?” he asks without turning around.
“Not bad. What are you making?”
“Darcy,” he repeats, his voice low.
“Stop,” I bark, and he finally faces me. “Please, I just want to forget it.”
He swallows hard. “Okay.”
“Okay…so, what are you making?”
“Pancakes. I’m a little nervous, though. It’s my first time cooking something.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
I survey his creation. It looks interesting enough. I’ve never seen pancakes that color before but okay, I’m game.
“Well, I’m honored.” I pull the carton of orange juice from the fridge.
I set the table and snicker in amusement when he burns the last two pancakes. He throws them out and joins me at the table, looking quite proud of himself.
“The most successful man in New York and you’re proud of making pancakes.” I giggle and choose one of the disfigured shapes from off the aqua-colored plate.
While he sits apprehensively, I cut a large piece of it with my fork and pop it into my mouth.
It’s probably the worst thing I’ve ever tasted. I desperately hope for maybe an aftertaste that is at least semi-pleasant but nope, I’m struggling to chew it.
I resist spitting it out and swallow, rather loudly, as the pancake is as dry as sandpaper.
“It’s good.” I smile. “It’s really good. What did you put in it? It tastes…different?”
“You don’t have to eat it. You don’t conceal your expressions very well.” He laughs, reaching for the plate.
