“Come on…it’s ready. Come see it,” Taylor urged, grabbing his hand and practically dragging Adam up off the couch and towards the kitchen.
“I finally get to see it?” he asked, putting his laptop down on the coffee table, and taking his headphones off. Adam had been reviewing a few of the tracks he was getting ready to release, to make sure they sounded just perfect.
“Yes. The ‘kitchen ban’ has officially been lifted.”
Adam stood, his bare feet greeting the deep red rug that covered the dark hardwood floors of Taylor’s Nashville apartment. She continued to pull on his arm, guiding him towards the airy kitchen.
“Okay, close your eyes,” Taylor instructed, as they neared the counter. She let go of his hand and put her arm around his back, leaning into his side. “Ready?”
Through a laugh, Adam replied, “Ready.” He moved his arm to drape it over her shoulders.
“Okay,” she said, moving her other hand toward the cake to remove the glass cover, which she placed on the wooden counter top.
Random drabble w/Tommy, Felicity and Oliver.It’s set after season 4 so in this world he didn’t die. I hope you enjoy!
“Books and Roommates”
Felicity strummed her fingers along the broken down binding of the often read book. The yellowed pages and musty smell evoked a sense of familiarity as she flipped through the various marked pages. She smiled at the statements written in the margins, her eyes rolled at times when she came across some stray equations.
The air around her suddenly grew cold, the fickler of the three wick candle on the stove top grew wild as the shadow it created began to dance. She shivered then sighed when she heard the heavy thud of his dirt caked boots hitting the dark brown of her hardwood floors. She slipped the blanket up until the soft fabric could be felt against her jaw. Her visitor stilled then signed, “You only bring that out when you’re feeling lost…” as he began to move towards the kitchen.
Felicity eyed him humorlessly, “You’re getting dirt on my clean floors.”
She couldn’t see his eyes since the mask hid the emotions they usually openly conveyed. His trademark smirk was hidden by the shadow his hood cast over his chiseled jaw. The line of his shoulders dipped when he bent down to open the lower cabinet door just beneath her stainless steel sink. “Felicity why are you reading that dribble? I mean I realize it’s considered a classic but you while reading it is not.”
She attempted to frown at his attempt at humor but failed when she let out a soft giggle. “I know, I know,” she repeated softly while leaning back into the front of her white couch. With the back of her head now planted firmly on one of the cushions she asked, “Are you ever going to just ask where the damn bowl is?”
He scoffed, “Please I reorganized this kitchen last week…” he took a dramatic pause before she saw the edge of his hooded head rise over the top of the counter. “You didn’t…” he pleaded as she slowly lifted her head and shrugged.
“He was complaining that he couldn’t find anything so…”
Her visitor’s eyes would have been burning red if the light could highlight his eyes. “Traitor!” he cried right as he slammed a gloved fist onto her newly installed granite counter tops.
She smirked, “Wow and I thought Oliver had a temper.”
Someday I’ll have a big art studio with dark hardwood floors, high ceilings, bright natural light, white walls, and a big fancy chandelier hanging above. Till then, the corner of this spare room will do. (maybe by then i’ll actually be good at painting hah)
It felt nice to stand in the living room, closing her eyes as the breeze from the open windows washed over every surface. Where once dust had held court, the dark hardwood floors shined to a reflection. Walls were repainted, from the intricate floral baseboards up in a brilliant white. Flowers of paint rose from that wood near the floor, a light lavender color that grew upon the walls and door frames. It was subtle and elegant, and everything she knew Penny would enjoy. She enjoyed it too.
The twin white couches faced each other over a coffee table as dark as the floor it sat on. A brick fireplace that looked as new as when it was built split the room in two, a column of black around white. Two huge windows on either side opened onto the quiet street, letting in the air and making the light curtains move.
To the left, the two bedroom doors were closed. She had the one with a window facing the road, while Penny, if she ever did choose to use it, had one facing the park and sea. Both had large closets, tucked away somewhere. The bathroom was next to them, its large bathtub and ornate marble design something she’d never expected from an apartment like this. It had taken her a whole day to make the room shine, ensuring every brass surface gleamed like a mirror.
The office sat with a desk and empty bookcases, plus a wall safe behind a painting she’d not bothered to inquire about. It looked much the same as the other rooms, save for having its own fireplace. Sharing its wall, to the right of the living room, was the kitchen. It took up the most space of any room, featuring one of those modern island designs she’d seen in a picture once before. It looked every bit out of a modern collection she’d stared at in a newspaper ad.
Hanging from eight hooks above the island, in front of the new and fancy cookware she’d bought, was a set of copper pots and pans. They made her happy every time she looked at them; a warm kind of happy that made the breeze from the windows feel like it didn’t exist. The best pans in any kitchen in the world. They were from Penny.
It had been a long week. Not working a day was hard enough, but not going into the office for a whole week had felt impossible. The work here kept her busy. Every surface polished and washed and cleaned and polished again. Everything spotless. Every delivery person directed, every object scrutinized. She wanted it to be perfect.
She made her way to the kitchen and opened up an envelope, taking out a series of note cards and finding the one she wanted. It was a recipe, written in simple terms, for a large dish called Salad Nicoise. Miss Malos had assured her it was simple to do, and that she could practice to get it right. It was the fourth night in a row she’d made it, each with its own batch of homemade vinaigrette.
It was time to invite Penny over for dinner, she thought. It felt like she was standing on the edge of a tall building, but she needed to do it. The same dread of her being unhappy or disappointed was also the fluttering stomach that made her want her here. They were friends. She would be happy, she thought. Nobody had ever seen her more afraid, or more delighted, nor a smile so large on her as she turned the oven on and got out a fourth day’s session of eggs.