Maame(39)

“Everyone’s a David Attenborough fan,” I say. “He’s the Earth’s grandpa.”



* * *



We take the wine into the living room, and I make a conscious effort not to spill any onto the carpet. This room is decorated in a soft gray-black with accents of chrome and teal. A giant Jackson Pollock–esque painting hangs on the back wall, and a large TV on the opposite. There’s a built-in bookcase beside the piano (“Ornamentation at this point, I rarely play”), and a fireplace in the wall.

Ben closes the curtains, takes a blanket from the armchair, and drapes it over us when we settle on the sofa.

The wine is very sweet, unlike the red from our first date, and I soon leave an empty glass on the table (atop a coaster, of course).

Tonight’s documentary is on big cats and their increasingly difficult search for food. I’m so absorbed I don’t notice Ben coming closer until his hand is resting on my thigh. These things happen. It’s quite grown-up to have a man’s hand on your thigh and I am a grown-up, so it’s fine. Now he’s stroking the inside of my thigh with his thumb. My pulse spikes when he’s further up my dress, and I wonder if I should touch him too. Where would be similarly appropriate to touch him?

I turn to look at Ben and his eyes catch mine. I mean to smile and look away, but he leans forward and kisses me, pulling me onto his lap. I make a conscious effort to kiss him back and it feels like a game of who can apply the most pressure on the other’s lips.

“I am, quite frankly, obsessed with you,” he says, and he kisses me again. It’s a nice thing for him to say and it’s even nicer to hear.

Suddenly it turns into a different kiss than the others before. All I can taste is his tongue and I can feel the pressure of his hands, pressing into my thighs, squeezing my hips, rubbing my back, but always returning to my thighs. He pulls me in closer and I jump when I feel he’s erect.

“You okay?” he asks.

Fuck. “Mm-hmm.”

Ben has a boner.

Well, of course he does. He’s thinking about sex. That’s how it works.

Behind me, the documentary is still playing: “With ferocious speed, the hungry lion closes in on its prey.”

Against every instinct in my body, I look down and this time I can’t hold it in.

“Maddie, are you giggling?”

“Sorry, I’m sorry! I’m not laughing at you,” I rush to add. “It’s just nervous energy, I swear.”

“You’re nervous?” he asks.

“Just a little.”

“That’s very sweet.”

“It’s just … I’m … It’s nothing.”

When I press my lips together, he hardens—well, the rest of him does.

“Maddie, are you a virgin?”

“I believe that’s what the kids are calling it these days. Oh, God, sorry.” I cover my face. “That was meant to be funny, but I’m not sure it even made sense. Yes, I’m a virgin. No sex. No! I don’t mean, like, never. It’s not a chastity-belt thing. I … It’s just never happened.”

I lower my hands, and Ben is smiling and rubbing my arms. “How is that possible? Look at you.”

I want to ask if he really means that but end up burying my face in my hands again.

“Stop that.” He gently encircles my wrists. I still keep my eyes closed and he sighs. “So, I take it tonight’s not the night.”

Behind me, bones are crunching and I assume the lion has won.

“Granted, not the best setting,” he adds.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He lifts me off his lap but lies back and pulls me on top of him. I rest my head under his chin, grateful that yesterday was hair wash day.

After a while, I say, “Is it bad that I was rooting for the lion?”

“Instead of Bambi?”

“Lions have to eat.”

“What about Bambi’s future plans?”

“Bambi had future plans. Not anymore.”

Ben pauses. “So you have a dark side?” He finds my bum and squeezes. “Good to know.”





Chapter Fifteen


OTP is going with my idea, only, no one knows it was my idea.

Kris is getting the credit because, according to the minutes of the last Creative meeting, instead of Cooking Combos, she proposed Flavor Pairings. Which is more refined, I suppose, but swapping words for synonyms doesn’t make it her idea! Does it?

At our catch-up, I say, “Good news about Flavor Pairings.”

“Yes,” Kris says, looking directly at me. “Penny loved the idea, so well done, but we’ve got a lot to do to turn the concept into an actual book. We’ve yet to whittle down which of our food writers we want to approach.”

I brighten up. She said “we’ve”—twice. I’m still in. “I’ve got a lot of ideas,” I say, opening my notebook. “Even some ‘pair’ ideas for the cover.”

Kris tilts her head at my inverted comma gesture.

“I thought it might be funny,” I explain, “to have a pear on the cover with one of its classic flavor combos, like chocolate, a bar of chocolate, I mean. Or chocolate chips, but they might look like droppings, so maybe the bar…”