Aphrodisiac | Rihanna

3; Hot Tubs & Invitations

"Tension, between us just like picket fences," I bopped my head along to the lyrics.

By now, a full week had gone by. Interestingly enough, I was greatly enjoying this opportunity. I had practically full freedom to try whatever dish I wanted. Most of the food I made for my channel revolved around making easy meals that anyone could recreate, whether they had fancy cookware or a background in the culinary arts, so that was a new concept to me. I guess Miss Fenty was right.

Calling Rihanna that still didn't roll off the tongue, but I was making the necessary adjustments. I was arranging my schedule around hers, and though there were a few awkward encounters, it was still a good week.

Earlier in the day, I had taken a stroll down to a local market, where I was delighted to find a vendor selling handpicked figs. One thing led to another, and I was just now putting freshly made fig bread onto a cooling rack.

"Passionate from miles away, passive with the things you say," I continued singing, now more and more into the song.

I mean, fuck, it was a good song. I admit, I got a little too lost in the song, and I probably looked like an idiot with all the swaying of my hips as I cleaned the counters.

Of course, at this exact moment, Rihanna and Ms. Forde decided to walk into the kitchen. "Cooking and singing; what can't you do?"

"Fuck" I jumped around, completely taken aback by her sudden arrival.

I watched them both curl over in laughter for a hot minute while I desperately tried to catch my breath. When my heart finally stopped racing, and they wiped their tears (though I didn't think it was that funny), the two ladies exchanged a brief look before Ms. Forde walked away.

"Sorry about the cursing," I clutched my heart. "That just caught me by surprise."

"Don't worry, you're fine," she breathed out as she came forward to lean against the kitchen island. Behind her, workers carried shopping bags that I could only assume were hers into the living room.

"New rule," she spoke up, diverting my attention from the designer brands and back to her. "No Drake in the house."

"What?" I frowned.

Her eyes drifted to where my phone lay, still blasting More Life. "Shit, sorry." I jumped forward and skipped the song, and just my luck; Controlla came on.

"Fuck." I skipped that one too, and I was thankful that the next song wasn't Drake. "Sorry about all the cursing, Miss Fenty. I hope I'm not making a bad impression?" I winced.

"You can curse, we're both adults, you know? And as for first impressions... I'd say we're past that now?" A playful fire danced in her eyes.

I had come to accept that Rihanna made me flustered. Very flustered. It wasn't her looks, her grandiose presence, or any of the other stuff you would think it was. It's actually how casual she was. Because at times lately, just like now, I would catch myself remembering who I was talking to. The mogul, the billionaire, the record-breaking artist and whatever other superlatives my sister would use to describe her. Yet, she was also capable of standing a few feet away from me, smiling from ear to ear and having a genuine conversation with a random guy like me.

"I guess I'd have to agree," I chuckled awkwardly, suddenly unsure what to do with myself.

"You're not a big Drake fan, I hope?" She arched an eyebrow, leaning in closer to me over the marble counter that separated us.

I was about to respond, but I knew it would sound like a convoluted jumble of nervous syllables, so I paused and breathed deeply.

"Not really," I turned around to resume my activities. "Would that have been a deal breaker?"