Catching Harley

Harley

I got roped into baking—something I haven’t done in years. Back when my life went to shit, and I ran away to Italy, I learned to bake from Marco’s mother. Not that Marco, the other one—we have two. I’m starting a collection.

Baking is usually something I do only when I’m depressed, so the fact that it’s been years is a good sign. When my hands are busy with something, I follow the recipe clearly written out in front of me, and my turbulent thoughts subside—as long as I follow the rules, everything turns out as it’s meant to. I tried to apply this philosophy to other areas of my life, but I’ve never been good with rules.

The turbulent thoughts would subside until I put whatever I made in the oven and realized I had to clean up. Then, there was a whole other situation to deal with. Luckily, my kitchen here at home is top-of-the-line, making that process a whole lot easier.

My sister Mikayla roped me into making her a wedding cake. Her literal words were, “If I have to suffer through all this wedding bull crap, I’m taking someone down with me, and right now, you’re the closest person in my vicinity.”

So here I am in the wee hours of the morning, fucking baking. I have no clue if these are appropriate flavors for a wedding cake either—I’ve chosen chocolate, lemon, and mojito.

I was tempted to add weed to the chocolate batter, but I thought mass doping a family function where kids and cops will be present wouldn’t have been the brightest idea. That didn’t stop me from splitting the batter and making pot brownies for later.

My father is chill on the whole pot thing now. He was a cop all his life, so it wasn’t always the case, but since he’s started using it for medicinal purposes, he’s turned over a new leaf.

Mikayla and I agreed to meet at my café, The Beanie, first thing this morning. By the time I’m done decorating the cakes, my kitchen is a complete disaster, and the procrastinator in me decides to leave everything where it is for later. That’s evening Harley’s problem; right now, morning Harley has to skedaddle.

There’s no way I can get these mini cakes to the café on my motorbike, so I decide to walk over after my shower, hoping the morning air will help slap some consciousness into me. No more all-nighters baking—I need to manage my time better.

It’ll be another hot July day, so I shimmy into a sundress and put on some makeup. I don’t wear much of it, but it’s another little routine that helps me zen out in the morning. Routine and the eight cups of coffee a day that I try to limit myself to keep me going.

There are the standard caffeine addicts, your regular Joes, and then there’s me, someone who fell so hard in love with coffee that I had to open my own café so that I could be around the smell all day. After my trip, I wanted to bring a little piece of Italy back here with me.

I say “trip,” but it was more than just that. It was a year of spiritual rehabilitation.

I was broken, and he tarnished everything that once brought me happiness. With nothing left to keep me here, I packed my shit and left. I never got “closure,” and I never went through all the “steps” that people consider “healthy,” but that doesn’t work for me. I accept, without argument, that bad things happen to good people every day and that regret is a waste of our precious time. Money is circulated while time is spent. I can always make more money, but time I can’t buy.

As I step out onto the pavement and start my morning commute to work, running through all the things I’m grateful for—I’m lucky to have a healthy, functioning body with all my limbs intact, I have an awesome family, I love my café and the loonies that work for me, I have my motorcycles which make me feel alive and free on a regular basis, and I’ve started seeing John, a sexy, successful man who puts Calvin Klein underwear models to shame. At least, I think he does—we’re yet to do the dirty deed. He’s been busy, and I’m too blah to care too much.

Italy healed my soul, and now I’m back in the city, wearing sundresses without a bra. Yass boobies, be free.

I wind through the busy morning rush—the sun hasn’t made its way over the buildings yet, so that refreshing morning chill still lingers. I dare not look down—I know my nipples are saying howdy doody to everyone passing by. Care level: zero.

I look at the cloudless sky and breathe in the crisp morning air. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Okay, these cakes are getting heavy.

As I pass the box to my other hand, I collide with someone who feels like they were made from solid marble—the box falls to the ground.

My night of baking lies crumpled at my feet.

“Cock-sucking motherfucker,” I mutter before realizing I’ve just sworn and practically facepalm myself.

“Fuck!” I add, for good measure.

My swear jar is off to a good start today, and it’s not even 8 a.m.

I look at the box on the ground, sigh, and then work my way up the ultimate specimen of a man towering before me. Mind you, I’m not short—at almost 6 feet—but this wall of muscle standing before me is at least a head taller. It must be hard getting through doors. I snicker a little at my own joke, which seems to make the angry god before me even angrier. Hey, those are my cakes that got wrecked, buddy.

I quickly scan him. His long blonde hair is tied up in a messy man bun, his stubbly jaw could cut glass, and if his eyes weren’t looking at me filled with murderous intent, I’d say they were beautiful. My favorite shade of blue is like that sky blue crayon with just a hint of green when you want to draw a tropical ocean. Wow, it’s unreal.

This is no mere mortal—this is a Viking someone has brought back from the past, cleaned up and stuffed into a pristine, white, long-sleeved jogging outfit that fits him like a second skin. Yes, please, a tree I’d like to climb.

His undeniably Scandinavian and utmost condescending eyes knit their brows, clearly unamused by me and my box of cakes. He’s got some severe alpha vibes radiating off him, which I’m sure effectively render any woman, or man for that matter, speechless, but lucky for me, that shit rolls right off. Unlucky for me, my brain-mouth filter is nearly nonexistent.

“You know, anabolic steroids are okay in small doses, but you might want to consider cutting back; the prolonged use is clearly affecting your manners,” I mutter in a deadpan tone.

The corner of his mouth twitches, and for a moment, he appears to be human.

“You should be more careful,” he says, and the timbre of his voice melts me into a puddle on the sidewalk.

As he makes his way past me, I get a whiff of whatever scent he exudes. Goddamn, dude, that’s all man right there.

Sploosh.

It’s a good thing I wore underwear today.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I mutter as I pick up the cakes.

I take a sneak peek at his popping booty as he walks away.

“No, it’s all right; I’ve got this, bro, but thanks!” I say loudly.

The Viking glances at me over his shoulder but keeps walking.

“Those steroids are working miracles for your ass!” I shout after him.

Why can’t I just shut the fuck up?

That’s when the God of Thunder full-on stops in his tracks. Eep!

I don’t stick around to discover what he does next and scurry off with my crumpled box in my arms.

The entire walk to The Beanie, the Viking’s piercing gaze is permanently etched in my mind’s eye. This is weird—I’ve been around men my whole life. In fact, I can easily say without a doubt I’ve had more guy friends than lady friends, yet I’ve never had a guy send my stomach into knots like this before.

I pat myself on the cheek, trying to swat him out of my head, but I just end up slapping myself like a crazy person instead.

Ow.