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Word Prompts: Retire, expire, desire

Choose one word and write what your imagination dictates. For an added challenge, include all three words in your entry.

Not beta'd.

I mull over recipe ideas while I drink my morning coffee. As a child, I often spent Sundays in my Grandma Swan's kitchen. She is the one who taught me how to cook, everything from pairing flavours to kneading bread, and perhaps most importantly, how to use my natural instincts when changing up a recipe. Since I dangled the idea of a Sunday go-to dessert in front of Masen, I have to come up with one in case he calls me on it.

I'm already anticipating his texts today. It's kind of crazy, really, how much I'm looking forward to hearing from him. The flutter of emotions I'm feeling is one of the best parts of falling for someone. There's no denying I'm drawn to him, but it's more than that. I want to save him from himself. I want to tear down the protective barriers he's surrounded himself with, and put them back up around us once I'm inside so he can't get away from me. I want to show him how he makes me feel—the drumming heartbeat, the lightheadedness when he stares at me, how his intensity melts my insides, liquefying my desire. I want to give to him in every way he'll allow.

By mid-morning, I have the perfect idea: homemade donut holes. They're simple, delicious, and totally fun. I'm too excited not to tease Masen with it, and quickly type out a text.

You're a doctor. Do eggs really expire?

It isn't long before he replies.

They haven't taught the chicken egg part of medical school yet. Sorry, I don't have a clue. Why? Good morning, btw. I didn't realize you were an early riser.

His seemingly good mood makes me instantly giddy, so I make use of the innuendo.

Are you an early riser too? ;) Dessert depends on eggs & I'm too lazy to go to the store to get more.

*sidestepping the double entendre* How far past their date are they?

Us or the eggs? *bats eyelashes innocently* A day or two.

Ernest Hemingway said: "All things truly wicked start from an innocence." And the eggs are probably okay.

My heart skips a beat. His ability to use quotes in just the right way amazes me. It's as if he has a line on my soul.

If they aren't, will you resuscitate me?

I'm sure I have him cornered, but he outsmarts me.

Sure. I'll dial 9-1-1. :p

Who says chivalry is dead? Maybe I should invite Rosalie over for dessert instead. I think she likes me enough to save me.

We were joking, were we not? If you were ever in danger, I'd do all I could to help you. You must know that.

It never hurts to be reminded.

You got angry the last time I reminded you to be safe. :(

I didn't want you to see me as weak and fragile.

Weak? Never! Fragile? Definitely. It's part of being human. Even the strongest person has chinks in his/her armour; if not physical ones, then emotional.

So you think I'm emotionally fragile?

Not at all! But your heart is so big, and you trust so willingly. Someone could use that against you. I hate the idea of someone hurting you like that.

His words are too deliberate to be about just me. He's giving me a clue about his past, whether it's intentional or not.

Someone used your trust against you?

I expect a joke or a subject change, anything but what I get.

Yes.

That's why you have trouble trusting, why you keep everyone out?

Weren't we talking about eggs? Plus, I think you mentioned a dessert invitation.

His lack of answer is an affirmative. He's only given me a little bit of information, but it tells me a lot about him.

I did mention dessert. Can I get Rosalie's number?

NO!

You had an invitation on Friday. Someone else deserves a turn.

I didn't get my turn.

I imagine the whine in his tone, smiling to myself. This man is serious about sweets, and I can't help teasing him a little further.

But you didn't ask for a rain check.

Beginner's mistake. It would be mean to hold it against me. I promise I'll remember next time.

You're assuming there will be a next time. :p I'll consider your request.

You're the one who's going to have to live with me if I don't get my sugar fix. Thirty minutes in an enclosed space might change your mind.

Monday feels like a hundred years from now. I wonder if it's the same for him.

You know I love a challenge.

Be prepared for pouting and whimpering, followed by begging and tears.

That's quite a vision.

You don't know the half of it. I have my ways.

I'll bet you do.

The afternoon gets away from me—too much daydreaming and a long phone call with my dad. He details his honeymoon trip with Sue, not the relationship parts, thank God, but the sights they saw. I tell him about school and Angie. When he asks how things are going with the rideshare program, I stretch the truth and avoid giving most of the details. I'd rather be sure about Masen before I share my feelings for him, even though my dad would probably be happy to hear that I'm falling for someone.

I send Masen a text asking him what he's up to. He doesn't respond. I type out an invitation to dessert three different times but never send it. If he's free, he'll get back to me, and if he gets back to me, I'll invite him.

My patience has dwindled by dinner, and disappointment begins to taunt me. Instead of accepting it, I decide to make donuts anyways. I multitask, mixing the dough while studying. It's no wonder I'm covered in flour five minutes later. Though my optimistic attitude is struggling to stay intact, I make the best of the situation by stripping out of my jeans and dashing down to the basement to run a load of laundry.

I spend the next few hours dancing around my kitchen, memorizing facts for a test while the donuts fry. It's a fun way to pass the time since I can't fit many donut holes into the deep fryer at one time, and it prevents me from dwelling, a stepping stone to sulking that will only lead to a pity party, something I'm desperate to avoid. It's my own fault that I'm feeling this way. I knew better than to have expectations.

In between batches, I run downstairs to put the laundry in the dryer, managing to forget the fabric softener in my apartment. I rush back up to get it, praying no one steals the dryer while I'm gone. By the time I return, I'm a hot, sweaty mess, and Masen is standing in my living room.

"Cute pjs." His tone is irritated, at odds with the way his eyes rake over my exposed skin.

I smile in spite of his irascibility because I'm happy to see him. There's no point in focusing on his anger. It won't get me what I want. Instead, I choose my words carefully, using innuendo to subtly convey what I want from him.

"Do you like them? I had to retire my jeans; an unfortunate kitchen accident. I needed de-flouring."

A/N: "All things truly wicked start from an innocence." ~ Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast, chapter 17.

I wanted to take a moment to address an anonymous complaint left on the last chapter that echoes one from a few chapters ago. This is a writing exercise based on prompts, and as such, some meandering is to be expected. If you feel the pace of ITPS is too slow, perhaps this story is not for you.

Thank you to everyone supporting the story.