Icing On The Cake. Laura Castoro

professional-athlete big. And he’s talking to me. So why not keep the conversation going? The subject was? Oh yes, friendship.

      “Oh, the usual. ‘You’re so lucky to be married to a great guy, and have two sets of twins, and a job with flexible hours. Look how long it took your boyfriend-stealing girlfriend to find a man to marry, even if he is a zillionaire.’ As it turns out, she’s had a change of heart about the zillionaire.”

      He nods, then says, “Excuse me,” and pulls out his cell phone. “Hey. Yeah, I’m waiting in the bar.”

      I turn away, surprisingly disappointed. Of course he’s waiting for someone. She’s probably running late, to ratchet up his anticipation.

      Mitch catches my eye, and I know he knows what I’m thinking. “I’m ready for that martini now.”

      “Try a perfect martini.” He’s talking to me again.

      “What’s your definition of perfect?” I say coolly.

      He smiles and, yep, the eyes have it, deep-set and long-lashed. Girlfriend better hurry up. This is not a man who should be left waiting. “Four parts good gin, one part Chambery dry and one part Noilly Prat sweet, shaken with ice.”

      “Sounds interesting. But aren’t you waiting for someone?”

      He shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

      “You recover quickly.”

      “It wasn’t a date. It was business.”

      “Sure it was.”

      He shoots me a knowing grin. “About that martini?”

      “I’m paying,” I say quickly. Hope it won’t cost more than the twenty I stuck in my evening bag.

      “Wait until you taste it.” The deep grooves around his mouth become dimple trenches. “So, what do you do?”

      “I’m a baker. I bake bread.”

      I watch closely for signs of a shift in his interest. Much as I hate to admit it, that “blue collar” comment from Ted has proved true for some.

      “Why bread?”

      “You know how some people crave chocolate? And others live for the next good vintage? Bread does it for me. A good loaf can satisfy all the senses.” I stop, chagrined. “I know. I’m talking about a food most people use as bookends for meat and cheese.”

      “Not at all.” He leans an arm on the bar and says, “Tell me more.”

      “Okay, but remember, you asked.” Suddenly I want to sound fascinating, entertaining and sexy as hell.

      “First off there’s the form of the classic loaf to seduce the eye. Some are round and firm, others long and lightly ridged.” I make the appropriate hand gestures. Shemar has rubbed off on me!

      “The crust is paramount. Personally, a rich medium brown really does it for me.” He smiles and I smile, and feel my pulse kick up a notch.

      “What else?”

      “There’s how a loaf feels when you slip a knife through it, or tear it open. A good brioche or roll will open like a flower when you pull it part. A well-proofed loaf will fall open in firm slices before a blade.”

      He props his jaw on his fist. “Go on.”

      “The aroma of bread still warm from the oven.” I close my eyes briefly in remembered delight. “It’s one of my all-time favorite smells.”

      “Three senses down, you’ve got two to go.”

      “Okay, I love the tantalizing taste as a slice of bread reveals its nature as sourdough or poolish-based. Oh, and the crunch it makes when you take a bite.”

      He looks amused. “I never thought of something as simple as bread delivering an orgasmic experience.”

      What the heck? I lean close and touch his arm. “There are those who suspect that it was a pomegranate not an apple Eve plucked from the Garden of Eden. Imagine the possibilities of the pomegranate-seed loaf I’m working on.”

      As he chuckles, I look over at the drink set before me and frown. “There’s fruit in my martini.”

      “You’re a passionate and adventurous woman. Consider the possibilities of the cherry.”

      He snags the cherry in my glass by the stem and jerks it out. “Observe the color—red. The texture—smooth. The shape—round.” He pops the cherry between his nice lips and rolls it around with the slow-motion deliberation, and then he chews as if he’s relishing every bite. “The texture is crisp, the taste sweet yet with a touch of…je nais c’est quoi.”

      When he’s done I point and say, “You left the lemon rind.”

      He reaches out with two fingers, as if to dredge my drink, but I move it out of his reach. “Okay, you win. I’ll taste it.” I close my eyes and take a sip.

      “Well?”

      “It’s all right.” It’s great! Of course, his demonstration with the cherry has me thinking more about what kissing him would taste like. A second more considering sip brings out the blend of flavors. “Very smooth.”

      “To the perfect evening!” We clink glasses.

      Might as well get the preliminaries over with. “Married or divorced?”

      “Divorced.” He shakes his head. “That sounded bitter. I’m not. Make that not anymore.”

      “You don’t have to explain. I’ve been there.”

      “Was yours acrimonious?”

      I pick up my glass. “What’s your definition of acrimonious?”

      “Did it include defamation of character or destruction of property?” His tone is light. “Were weapons involved?”

      I contemplate the slightly oiled surface of my martini with a small smile. “What’s your definition of weapons?”

      His change of expression cracks me up. “Just kidding. So, what do you do?”

      “Does it matter?”

      “Actually, I couldn’t care less.” I finish off my perfect martini in two large swallows.

      “Want to try another combination?” He points at my glass. “Or do you prefer more of the same?”

      I meet his gaze and it’s like looking over the edge of a high cliff. Is this the next great man? If so, “More of the same please.”

      “My pleasure and my treat.”

      After that we chat about nothing in particular. He’s so easy to talk with. He tells a long story about his visit to a gin distillery. I listen only enough to make the occasional “Really?” or “You’re kidding” interjections. I’d rather admire the way his ears lie against his skull. And imagine how much fun it would be to follow with a finger the wave of his hairline from the temple to where it swoops up over an ear and then slips razor-edge perfect down the column of his neck. Something about the smooth, hairless slope of his nape makes me weak-kneed.

      When I reach out and touch his wrist to emphasize a point, he flips his hand over and captures my fingertips and gives them a quick squeeze. Our gazes meet and hold just long enough.

      “Have you considered broadening your business?” he asks after the third set of drinks arrives. I’ve been regaling him with tales of the No-Bagel Emporium.

      “Only every other day.”

      “What’s stopping you?”

      “Lack of capital. Lack of investors. Lack of distribution mechanism.”

      “Ever think about doing a deal with a corporation for distribution?”

      I make