Black Velvet (21) (Patreon)

I've been holding my breath in anticipation for tomorrow when Tobias begins with his first buddy-shift — and of course, as previously the sole baker, I'm his buddy.

I snort.

I've appropriately named tomorrow doomsday — otherwise known as the day that I will most likely, and awkwardly, suffer from either word vomit or inappropriate flashes of terrible teenage hormones. Both options are perfectly plausible when it comes to Tobias.

'Being around you makes me want to stab my fucking eardrums.'

Great.  I wonder how well teaching the man can possibly go, eying the bread knife and paddle attachment to the mixer. I conclude that we have two hundred unique scenarios in which we could kill each other — most of them violently, and in my head, I'm quickly over-powered.

Doomsday.

It's four in the morning, and the thought isn't exactly calming, but that's not in the least bit surprising to me. I pull out my phone and type out a text three times to Nic, before deciding he probably wasn't the best candidate to ask about Tobias' tendency to aggressively hate-flirt with me.

I cram another apple slice into my mouth and stare down at the screen, eyes rolling upwards as I try to think of anyone else I could question. Where is my stereotypical gay best friend — or super close, female friend who has excellent intuition?

Dude, do I have any friends?

Charlie-Anne.

I decide it's not the sort of thing to bother her with — and also that I may just be that gay best friend.  I shake the thought away.

I have peanut butter hidden in the crook next to the cleaning chemicals and march over to it to shove my apple slice inside with undeserved aggression. I wonder if yoobling: why does my neighbor hate me but also make lots of sexual innuendos — will provide any informative results. My first assumption is probably because Yooble has answers to everything.

I lean against the sink and dig out my phone again, pulling up Webspace, armed with internet knowledge and one step closer to figuring the Amadeus man out — through Yooble answers.

—

Yooble doesn't have answers, but unpleasantly enough — there's plenty of porn sites with titles about aggressively flirty neighbors that come up instead. Shocked, I delete my history twice, for good measure.

I'm not allowed a lunch break at work, but business is relaxed, and there's plenty of time for breaks while I'm waiting for the bread to cook. I'm alone in the morning until seven — when our barista, Shelby, arrives. Usually, my break consists of apples and peanut butter — staring tiredly at the shapes in the pink-hued wallpaper in the lobby — and breathing in the scent of pinesol cleaners.

Ms. Martin will sometimes come in around five, sometimes being the keyword. Usually, it's on hot days when she wants to use the ceiling fan in her office — and she, as an employee — well, that doesn't count.  This is due to the fact that she sits in her office with books about award-winning Pomeranians and Emilsson Brown recipes (because she's totally in love with him, even though he's old and nerdy — and whatever, to each their own, right?)

She swears by the recipes, anyways, dropping off photo-copied replicas on my workbench whenever she finds one that includes a liquor base (or a super zoomed-in photo of Emilsson Brown's face.)

I turn from the thought, ready to wash my hands.

"The apron suits you." The amusement in Tobias' voice is light, and his voice is sleep-deep, so it shouldn't shock me as much as it does — but I slam sticky fingers against the sink in absolute terror anyway,

"Holy shit,"  My voice is strangled around a lump of peanut butter, and I groan, turning around to face him with a look of disgust, "I could have choked! — Why do you like popping out like that? Guys like you shouldn't pop out like that."

"Guys like me?" Tobias' nose wrinkles, all sharp features, curling more like a snarl and less like a cute rabbit,  "Laura gave me keys, I came in through the back."

"Yes, guys like you —" I motion towards his imposing frame and cut jaw; the fierce eyebrows, "— If you want to sneak up on people, you should at least start wearing cardigans or something  — like a man purse or something. Or. Fanny pack." I shrug at his confusion and then take a double-take at his words, "Oh— and Laura? You're on a first-name basis with Ms. Martin now?"

"You talk a lot, even in the morning." Tobias looks genuinely disappointed; the roll of his eyes accenting his displeasure.  He's leaned menacingly against the pink and sugar spun wallpaper. I hate that he seems intimidating against the literal colors of cotton candy.

"Well, generally, you don't respond to anything I've actually said anyway." I pull a couple of napkins from the dispenser to wipe down the sink, "At least your bruises have healed — you don't look friendly, but you look less like a killer."

"Aren't you sassy at four am,"  Tobias shoves past me and pulls on his apron, tying the back right above the start of his lean legs.  His tone is dry, and how he manages to still look like he belongs on the cover of some GQ magazine in the same freaking apron that I'm adorned in, is a mystery. "— No wonder why you're the only baker here."

"— excuse me; was the only baker,"   I swallow, eyes settling on the mess at my station,  "Oh, crap — I thought you started tomorrow." I frown, in no way prepared to train him — as most of the work is already done or half-started.

"Well, is that going to be a problem?" Tobias' dark eyes slide to me, genuinely curious, but his tone is demanding — something that says he needs the work, the money, and that I better not be sending him home.

"Ah. A little...  I've already made the bread, I usually do that first thing," I walk hurriedly ahead of him and pull down the recipe book that's bound above the mixer,  "I can go over the recipe with you, but it's kind of easier to learn breads hands-on."

"Well, what's next?" The man crosses his arms for a moment before reaching for the recipe in my hands,

"Wait — wait," I snatch it back, hopping from foot to foot as I count out the batches I've already made in my head. "We can make an extra two dozen and bring it to the Theatre across the street during their lunch break — uh, that way; I can show you how."

I mumble, eyes on the sheet in my hand.   "— also advertise." 

I list off the ingredients as I tuck the sheet away, having memorized it three months into my job because Ms. Martin demands of me that I make it every day.

I don't realize I'm mumbling, hand pulling at my shirt absently as I try to work past the fact that this isn't planned and that I can't seem to regroup my thoughts.

"Hey — I'm talking to you," Tobias' finger bumps my chin, "Oliver — are you talking to yourself or to me?" He asks, a serious set to his face. "I'm trying to keep up, but you're mumbling."

"Oh," My eyes are wide, and his finger is warm on my chin, more distracting than the multitude of measurements floating around in my head,  "Oh, right, sorry." I duck my head away from his hand, suddenly sheepish, "... Let me show you where everything is first."

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