The house was rich with smells of cinnamon, nutmeg and dried fruit as Willow pulled a tray of hot cross buns out of the oven. She loved Easter – not because of the religious significance it held for so many – but for the very fact that, guilt-free, you could eat freshly baked hot cross buns with mountains of butter.
As with most of Willow’s baking, today’s offering served a higher purpose. She’d grown tired of waiting for Carlo to call, so she’d decided that it was time to take things into her own hands. It was the 21st century, for crying out loud. Since when did a girl have to wait for a guy to call her? There was one small problem, of course. In her haze of lust the other week, she hadn’t remembered to get his phone number.
“Doesn’t matter,” Willow said, as she inhaled the warm aroma from the tray in front of her. “I know where he lives!”
Why it had taken her this long to figure out she could go visit him was held in sharp relief to the fact that she now realised she should go and visit him. She pushed to the back of her mind the niggling doubt that, had he wanted to see her again, he probably would have called. He was just a guy who obviously didn’t know what he was missing out on. And, besides, who could resist a gorgeous woman bearing baked goods?
She carefully wrapped some of the buns in a clean tea towel, put them in an attractive wicker basket with some butter and homemade cherry jam, and grabbed her car keys. She whistled as she walked towards her car, excitement bubbling through her.
Willow’s bravado began to waver as she approached the Art Deco apartment building. Again, she wondered how he could afford such an amazing place. She hadn’t realised that being a chef in Italy was so lucrative. She also had no idea how long he was planning to stay in Australia, but the fact he had an apartment here was probably an indication (she hoped) that it was going to be a while.
“Details, details,” she muttered to herself.
Willow buzzed the intercom for Carlo’s penthouse apartment but there was no answer. Not willing to admit defeat so easily, she loitered outside the security door in the hope that someone would either come in or out. She could leave the hot cross buns with a note outside his apartment.
It’s not stalking, she reasoned with herself. It’s demonstrating admiration without reciprocity.
She didn’t need to wait long. An elderly gentleman, dressed head-to-toe in what appeared to be Ralph Lauren, emerged from inside the building as Willow pretended to search her handbag for keys.
“They smell good,” he said, indicating to the basket of hot cross buns she held in her hand. “Any spares?” he winked at her as he held the door open.
Willow laughed. She unwrapped a corner of the tea towel. “Go on.” He had let her in, after all.
“Don’t tell my wife,” he whispered conspiratorially and took a bite. “Delicious!” he said as he walked outside, leaving her alone in the foyer of the building.
Willow entered the lift and hit the button for the penthouse. She used the mirror in the lift to check her hair, obsessively smoothing a few stray strands near her ears. She was nervous again.
He’s not even there, she told herself, so why are you freaking out?
When she reached Carlo’s front door, Willow placed the basket on the ground. The buns had cooled almost completely, but their spicy, warm smell still lingered in the air. She pulled out a pen and some paper to write a note but hesitated, giving a tentative knock on his door instead, just in case.
To her surprise, the door flung open, and she was confronted with Carlo, wrapped in a crisp white towel, his hair damp from the shower. He smelled of shampoo and soap. She instantly felt herself distracted by the warmth emanating from his body. His face went through a range of emotions, but ended up on something resembling delight, which Willow took to be an OK sign.
“Willow!” He pulled her into a hug and kissed the top of her head. “You must think that I am terrible.”
Willow started to speak, but he cut her off.
“I’ve been wanting to call. I’ve been waiting for you to come to the market so I could see you. I lost your phone number, I didn’t know where you lived…” He took her hand and kissed it, muttering apologies the whole time. “Willow, I have been in agony, desperate to see you again.”
Of course! He had lost her phone number! It all made perfect sense now.
Willow’s face split into a huge smile and all her nervous energy melted away. “Well, it’s lucky I came to you then, isn’t it.” She quickly bent to retrieve the basket. “And I brought breakfast.”
“My darling Willow,” Carlo said as he swooped her inside and closed the door.
***
They didn’t get to breakfast straight away. But they sated their appetites in other ways, exploring each other’s bodies until exhausted and they could do nothing but lie, limbs entwined, their breaths heavy and even.
Carlo languidly rolled over and looked up at the living room clock (they hadn’t even made it into the bedroom). “Oh no,” he breathed, his eyes apologetic. “I have to go.”
Willow smiled at him and tried to quell her unhappiness at the prospect that he would leave. But, she had arrived unannounced. She couldn’t just expect him to put all his plans on hold.
Carlo leapt up and then leaned down to give her a kiss. “I’m just going to use the shower. Wait for me and we can walk out together.”
She nodded and continued to lie on the floor for a few seconds after he left the room. Stretching, she looked around for her clothes, which had been flung across every nearby piece of furniture, and saw the hot cross buns sitting on the counter. Willow suddenly remembered how hungry she was.
Pulling on her dress, she padded over to the kitchen to grab a bun. She heard the shower turn on and the sound of Carlo stepping in. Taking a bite at one of her creations, Willow marvelled at how light and fluffy they were. Could these be the best batch yet?
As she was giving herself an imaginary pat on the back for her baking prowess, the telephone in the apartment rang. She waited to see if Carlo would get out of the shower to answer it, but he didn’t so she shrugged and let the answering machine pick up, taking another bite of her late breakfast. A woman’s voice disrupted her reverie. Willow paused mid-bite.
“Carlo? Are you there?” There was a pause and then a sigh. “My meeting has been delayed and I’m not going to be back until Monday. I hope you’re enjoying the apartment and have made yourself at home.”
Cousin? Willow thought, feeling unsettled. Old friend, perhaps?
The woman’s voice dropped to a softer, huskier tone. “I can’t wait for another night like the one we had before I left. And don’t forget you promised to make me the baked tomatoes, seeing as we didn’t get to them last time.” She uttered a throaty laugh. “Ciao,” she said, then hung up.
Willow was stunned. Her mouth, full of hot cross bun, had dropped open in disbelief. That lying, cheating son of a bitch! He hadn’t lost her number! He was shacked up in some other woman’s apartment and was using it as his own personal… brothel! She didn’t even want to think of how many other women he’d had since her.
The shower had turned off. Willow grabbed her bag and flung it over her shoulder, heading for the exit. She didn’t feel like making a scene and, besides, Carlo didn’t even deserve the chance to try to explain his way out of this. She yanked open the front door, paused, ran back inside to pick up the basket of hot cross buns, and ran out of the apartment.
As she reached the main entrance she nearly bowled over the same elderly gentleman who had ushered her in earlier, the weekend newspapers and a carton of milk now in his hand.
“Here.” Willow thrust the baked goods into his hands as he propped the door open with his foot. “Enjoy.”
He watched, bemused, as the charming young girl fled across the road to her car. He was still standing there as she drove off, holding his hand up in a wave.
“Thank you!” he called out to the retreating car. The man looked down at the unexpected basket of buns in his hands, eager to try another. The sample he’d had earlier was like none other he’d eaten before, with the perfect balance of cinnamon and – what was it? Orange peel? He was struck by how much those buns seemed to be like their maker.
Spicy, sweet and a little… unusual.
