Rough [H.S.]

four.

Standing on the edge with you, eyes of green and skies of blue. All the while you try and guess as your heart beats through your chest. Is it real, could it be true? Sparks fly as I think of you.
Song: On & On & On by Caamp

"Shit!" I cursed, flour spilling all over the counter. Grabbing a dish towel, I cleaned it up, glancing around at the ingredients that littered my kitchen island.

This was the fourth baked good I had made in three days. First it was Austrian pull-apart rolls. Then it was vanilla crescent cookies. Next came a Viennese sour cherry strudel. And this afternoon I was working on an Austrian hazelnut crème torte. Whenever I was sad, stressed, or angry, I made the dessert recipes my grandmother had taught me when I was little. Currently, I was sad, stressed, and angry. Hence the copious amount of baked goods that currently filled my countertops.

Grabbing a measuring cup, I re-measured the flour and dumped it into a bowl of breadcrumbs before expertly separating my eggs into two bowls. Picking up the whisk, I scrambled the eggs rapidly, taking out all my pent-up emotions on those poor little yolks.

Of all the recipes my Oma had taught me, the torte was my favorite. There was just something about baking a cake from scratch that was therapeutic to me. All cooking was therapeutic to me, really. It was my first love, my passion. Which was exactly why I was three years into my culinary arts degree, much to my father's dismay. It didn't matter that I had gotten into one of the best culinary schools in the nation and that I was at the top of my class. It wasn't Yale and I wasn't becoming a lawyer.

That's partially why I was working for him part time at his office. So I could say I tried the law thing for a bit and I hated it and he would finally see that it just wasn't gonna happen. I'd been at the law office for three months now and I was hoping he'd soon realize what a poor fit it was for me and would drop the whole me being a lawyer thing.

Focusing back on my cake, I started whipping my egg whites, making stiff little peaks in my bowl. Once I was pleased with their consistency, I dumped in the hazelnuts along with my flour/bread crumb mixture and egg yolks. Making a stiff batter, I spooned it into my floured pan before popping it in the oven. Torte portion complete. Time for the filling.

Pushing my hair out of my face with the back of my hand, I wiped my flour-covered palms on my apron before cleaning the kitchen a bit.

Harry.

The thought of him flashed in my brain momentarily for the thousandth time as I wiped the countertops. Filling my days with baking as a distraction from him was clearly not working as designed. I couldn't tell you how many times in the last three days I had almost unblocked his number. But then I reminded myself that there was no way he would have even tried to reach me this soon anyhow. He let weeks go by between all of our other encounters. Surely this would have been the same, which was part of the reason I blocked him in the first place. He was an asshole. He said he only wanted sex but then sometimes hinted at creating a friendship. He was confusing and irritating as hell and I didn't need someone like that in my life.

So then why was he literally all that I could think about?

It had to be the sex. The sex was so fucking good, easily the best I had ever had in my life. I had had a few adventurous sexual partners in the past but none like Harry. And contrary to his typical persona, Harry was adamant about making sure I felt safe and comfortable while having sex. I had never been with someone like that. Even when we had gotten close to pushing things a little too far last time, I never felt unsafe. I knew he would stop the second I asked. I trusted him in the bedroom.