The first thing Marissa noticed upon entering the house was that, unlike the exterior, the interior did not seem to be made of desserts.
The second thing she noticed was that the inside of the house was richly decorated, with plush black sofas and armchairs that looked incredibly comfortable to sit on. The carpet was a dark grey, which set off well against the brighter grey wallpaper, which had white trees with shimmering silver leaves patterned across it. The various shelves and end tables were made of a dark, richly polished wood she couldn’t identify which also had swirling silver patterns inlaid on it.
The third thing she noticed was that she almost wasn’t aware of the second thing she noticed, because the house’s owner appeared to be trying to compensate for not making her home’s interior out of baked goods by keeping a staggering number of sweets and treats on hand and ready to go. Spinning racks of pies filled a nearby table, while trays of cookies and cupcakes and muffins were artfully positioned on every end table. One wall was taken up by a large, glass door refrigerator which was filled with various bottles of soda and shakes on one side, and full of desserts better served chilled, such as parfaits and chocolate mousse, on the other. If nothing else, the lady certainly hadn’t lied about baking all morning.
Speaking of the lady, she was currently standing close behind Lance, who was staring at the room in slack jawed delight. She was standing, Marissa noted with a faint rush of displeasure, altogether too close for Marissa’s comfort; her generous chest was practically flush against Lance’s back, and he well manicured nails were resting on his shelters as she tilted her head slightly upward (the tall spikes of her heels didn’t put quite her level with Lance, but gave her an inch or two on Marissa) to talk in Lance’s ear.
“Feel free to eat whatever you like, Darling.” She was saying, in the sort of husky voice femme fatales used in old spy movies. “I’m afraid it will go to waste, otherwise. I simply enjoy the act of baking, you see. But I’m afraid I’m not all that interested in the results.”
“As much as I want?” Lance asked, apparently still struck dumb by the sight of all the fattening goodies. He absently reached up to wipe a little drool from the side of his mouth.
“As much as you want,” the woman confirmed with a smile. Then, to Marissa’s ire, she released one of Lance’s shoulders and gave the gentle curve of his modest tummy a few soft pats. “It’ll be nice to see them go into an appreciative stomach rather than into the waste bin. And look,” she gently rotated Lance to gesture at the far wall. “You can even use my television.”
Lance’s eyes nearly popped out of his head: the entirety of the side wall was taken up by an enormous TV of the sort Marissa had only ever seen in movies about obnoxiously rich people. Her boyfriend needed no further encouragement. He broke free of the woman’s grip and darted over to the couch, snatching up a plate of strawberry tarts as he did so. He plopped down onto the couch with a lazy sigh and immediately bit into one of the treats, letting out a moan of delight at the flavor as he picked up the remote from where it lay on the side table.
“These are so good,” he said around a full mouth as he clicked on the tv. “Babe, bring me one of those sodas from the fridge, would you? Actually,” he amended, licking strawberry filling off his lips, “make it a shake?”
Rolling her eyes, but familiar with the routine if not the location, Marissa retrieved one of the chocolate shakes and brought it over to her boyfriend. He took it from her with an absentminded nod and stuffed another tart into his mouth. Knowing Lance would be checked out for the next little bit as he indulged his sweet tooth and his TV addiction, Marissa moved to peruse the myriad desserts for something she might like to eat.
A gentle hand on her shoulder stopped her before she could get close enough to decide.
“Now, now, dear,” said the old woman kindly, her grip on Marissa’s shoulder tightening. “None of that, now. Those sorts of foods aren’t good for a girl’s figure: They render a man robust and healthy; but I’m afraid the effect on women is rather less appealing. Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me? I’ve a nice plate of celery sticks you can have, and I could use a hand with the cleanup." Her eyes glittered with something Marissa couldn't identify. "And it's the least you can do after the damage you did to my home, don't you think?"
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