I do work hard, but I also have some days where I knock off early and can do something I enjoy. That could be a rip-roaring, raunchy fuck in the club, a round of golf, or even just sitting in my apartment watching ESPN. Only the last two of those things are viable today since Trista’s spending her day with Corinne.

There’s only baseball or NASCAR on right now, neither of which I’m a huge fan of, so it appears I’m going golfing, which is something I really love to do. I pick up the phone to call the country club I belong to so I can find out available tee times, but I don’t even get to dial when there’s a soft knock on my door and it immediately opens. Only two people walk in here without waiting for my invitation—Kynan and Trista. It used to be only Kynan, but Trista’s now on my allowed list. I happen to know Kynan’s in D.C. this weekend so I know it’s Trista before I even see her. A zinging jolt of electrical excitement courses through me.

Now that is a weird fucking feeling.

She pops her head in first and gives me a tentative smile. “You busy?”

“Not at all,” I tell her as I wave her in.

She disappears for a moment, and then opens the door wider. I see she’s carrying a large, plastic container that’s dome shaped and has a handle on top. My eyes only flick to it briefly before coming back to her. She’s much better to look at.

Shutting the door behind her, she walks up to my desk with a goofy grin on her face and sets the plastic container in front of me. I look down at it, and then up to her. “What’s that?”

“Something I made for you this morning,” she says, unlocking the tabs at the bottom. She lifts the dome top off, and I’m staring at a cake in front of me.

Slowly, I look back up to her. “You made me a cake?”

“Not just any cake,” she says while wagging a finger at me. “A four-layer, homemade red velvet cake with whipped mascarpone icing.”

“Jesus,” I mutter as I look at the cake, wondering what this weird squeezing sensation is in my chest. When I look back up to her, I have to ask her again, “You made that just for me?”

“Just for you,” she says with satisfaction all over her face. “You said it was your favorite, and I had some time this morning after pancakes.”

I push out of my chair and wave a hand at the cake. “You just happened to have all these ingredients, huh? You routinely use something as odd as mascarpone?”

Her grin turns mischievous as she shrugs. “Well, I may have had to go to the grocery store for a few things.”

Jesus fuck. I can’t believe she did that for me.

My mind races over the years, and I can’t remember anyone doing something so randomly nice for me. So spontaneous and with the sole intention of doing it to please me.

Picking up the cake, I round the desk and head for the side door that connects to my kitchen. “Let’s take this next door.”

I don’t miss the disgruntled expression on Trista’s face as she clearly expected me to act differently. I’m sure she was thinking I’d be a bit more effusive in my praise, and I intend to be.

Just… in my apartment.

She follows me through the door as I balance the cake on my hand. I immediately lay it down on my kitchen counter and spin around just as she’s walking through the door, taking her face in my hands and walking right into her. My mouth hits hers. She gives a huff of surprise as I turn slightly and back her into the refrigerator. Angling my head, I kiss her deeply. It’s possible because she angles hers the other way, opening her mouth to give me entrance.

Yes, it’s a deep kiss, but it’s not sexual. It’s a show of unbridled happiness that makes me feel like a kid, or perhaps it’s gratitude that Trista perhaps thinks this is something other than “just sex”.

When I pull away, Trista’s cheeks are pink and she’s slightly panting. She whispers breathlessly to me, “I should make you cake more often.”

The grin that breaks wide is my answer, followed by another swift kiss. Then I’m turning away from her and grabbing a fork out of my drawer. Without any pomp, and certainly no circumstance to wait for a plate, I punch my fork down into the top of the cake and pull a huge chunk out.

“Oh, my God.” Trista giggles as she comes to stand beside me at the counter. I angle toward her as I bring the fork to my lips, open my mouth wide, and shove the cake in. Cheeks bulging and the taste of rich cake and lightly sweet, tangy frosting coating my tongue, I groan in satisfaction. Our eyes stay locked as I chew and chew and chew, and finally swallow the heaven in my mouth. Trista’s eyes are sparkling with humor and a bit of pride.

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