38. Closer to Fine
Closer to Fine
Charlotte
A rden returns from grilling the hamburgers just as I finish sprinkling the potato salad with paprika.
I rush forward. “Oh my God. Is that a burn? Do you need a hospital?
He sets the tray of blackened burgers on the counter and rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve had worse sunburns. The grill was smoking. So I lifted the lid to check on it and—”
Whoosh!” Gabriel yells, rushing past and miming fire exploding from the grill. “My eyebrows. My eyebrows!”
Arden scowls. “I was not that dramatic.”
Gabriel giggles and rushes out onto the front porch where we can see Henry through the windows “supervising” Bronnie as she attempts to copy his jiu-jitsu forms.
I rush to the sink and run a clean hand towel under the water.
I wring it out and dab at Arden’s reddened face. “Does that feel any better?”
He puts his hand on my wrist and draws the cloth away. We’re so close he feels like a gravitational force. As though I’m having to fight nature to prevent plastering myself against him.
“I’m fine, Charlotte. Just embarrassed.”
“Please don’t be.” I try to lighten the mood. “You’re still smokin’ hot.”
His cringes. “Literally.”
“Figuratively too.”
He leans down. “Really?” His voice is like the fudge I tasted earlier. Smooth and dark and sweet.
“I could kiss it better.”
He dutifully closes his eyes. “Please.”
He’s leaning down, but I still stand on my tiptoes to kiss first one eyebrow, then the other.
When I drop down to my heels to look at him, his lips quirk. With his eyes still closed, he points to his mouth. “You missed a spot.”
I close the distance. His lips are soft but firm. I give him a series of small close-mouthed presses. His hands roam up my back.
“No!”
Arden and I startle apart at Henry’s shout.
“No. No. No.” He stands in the doorway with his hands over his eyes. “We’re riding a pontoon and playing cornhole and eating fudge. This is not a kissing vacation!”
Bronnie and Gabriel came running at Henry’s shouting. Now, Bronnie pats Henry’s back. “It’s okay, Henry. They’re ’ llowed to kiss because they’re getting m—”
“More hungry by the minute!” I talk over her and lift the bowl of potato salad. How does she even know we’ve talked about it? Little pitchers have big ears.
Henry mutters. “I knew it. Elias went with his dad on a vacation with girls and then, boom, Elias is wearing a tuxedo and carrying a ring on a pillow, and there was kissing in front of everyone. And then he had a sister and a woman in his house telling him to wash his ears.”
Arden blinks in consternation. “Henry, I tell you to wash your ears.”
“I’m not used to strangers.”
“Once you know someone, then they aren’t strangers anymore,” Arden says reasonably.
Henry takes three quick breaths, then visibly attempts to control himself by breathing slowly.
Arden moves over to his son, crouches down to his level and asks gently, “Do you need cooldown time? Or do you want to talk things out?”
“What happened to your eyebrows?” Henry sounds like a concerned parent.
“The hamburgers caught on fire and burned them off,” Gabriel says.
“Dad, please stop cooking,” Henry says. “You’re not good at it.”
“No one is magically good at a new skill. It takes practice,” Arden argues. “It means I have to do it more often.”
“But we’ll starve,” Henry whispers.
Gabriel picks up one of the hockey-puck burgers and beats it against the counter with a surprisingly loud thunk.
Bronnie rubs Henry’s back again. “My mommy’s good at cooking.”
Henry looks at me with limpid, hopeful eyes. “Do you know how to make Croque Madame?”
I shake my head and lift my bowl. “No, but I know how to make potato salad.”
His trepidation at the sight of mayo-covered potatoes is clear.
“I also know how to cook corn on the cob with a campfire. And afterward, we can play games and make s’mores. Those are melted chocolate and marshmallows on graham crackers.”
Henry bravely stiffens his spine. “I’ll try it."