Sweet Revenge (m|m)

Nine - Aaron

Upstairs, I strip out of my caramel-spattered apron and work clothes, put burn cream and a band-aid on the spot where a drop of boiling sugar landed on my hand, and throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Then I catch my reflection in the mirror and frown.

My hair's a mess, and besides the blue shadows under my eyes, there's almost no color in my face.

I've been working nonstop the past week, getting my stock up for Valentine's Day and preparing for the annual state chocolate competition.

I've placed in the top three for as many years in a row, but I haven't won because the judges favor tradition over innovation. This year I'm determined to win, but I'm also not willing to compromise my craft.

Instead, I have to make something so brilliant, so perfect, that they won't care if it's different and unexpected, and maybe even a little strange.

At least, that's the dream. If I wasn't so stubborn I could just make a milk-chocolate truffle and the prize would be mine. But that's not the point.

My grandma used to tell me that candy-making is an art, and that like any artist, a little bit of yourself goes into every creation. If that's true, then I want my candy to be delicious because I created something worthwhile, not because I changed myself to suit someone else's tastes.

On the other hand, if I keep pouring myself into my work like this, there won't be much of me left for anything else. Like dates with ridiculously hot guys.

Blake looks positively edible tonight, and it's making me doubt the wisdom of agreeing to have dinner with him. My willpower is always weak when I'm tired.

Kate's already locked up and left by the time I rejoin him downstairs. I find him leaning over the display case, studying the contents like it's the ring assortment at Tiffany's.

I cough lightly, and he looks up and gives me a big grin like I just made his day by walking into the room. I dredge up a passable imitation of a smile in return.

I guess forgery's not my thing, because he detects the falseness in it right away, and his own expression dims.

"You look kinda worn out," he says. "We don't have to do this tonight if you don't want to."

For some reason, his concern pisses me off more than if he'd shown none at all.

"I'm fine," I say, a little snappishly. "Where are we going?"

"Oh. I thought you wanted to pick."

Damn. That's right. I was being a difficult bitch and insisted on choosing.

"Right. You like pizza?"

If he says no I'll have a legitimate reason never to see him again.

"I love it," he grins.

"Great. I know a place."

Outside, I look across the street and realize his truck is still missing. He sees the direction of my look and shrugs apologetically.

"It's still in the shop."

Nice. So not only am I choosing the place but apparently I'm driving too.

I start towards my car and Blake takes a few jogging steps to catch up.

"Sorry," he apologizes, rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess they didn't have the parts they needed on hand and they won't arrive until next week."

"No, it's okay." I give him a genuine, if small, smile. "Don't mind me. I've had a long week is all."

As he gets in and shuts the door he pauses again, and there's something in his eyes that I don't like. It's a look of worry and concern that I haven't had to endure since I left for college.