6. Hannah
HANNAH
One week later…
The hum of the oven warming up seems loud in the quiet house. I pull the door to the kitchen closed and keep the lights dimmed low, so as not to wake anyone.
In the evenings, I hear Pops’s laughter from upstairs and wonder what they’re talking about.
But the worst is the quiet mornings when we drive to the cafe together, his hand inches from mine but never touching, the silence between us comfortable.
And then we get to the cafe and go about our established routines, his checking for anything unusual, me baking.
When the first batch is in the oven, I pour the coffee and we sit by the window, watching the sun creep down the mountain.
Pops is invigorated by having a man around the house.
They were out walking the cherry orchard together yesterday, and Grant helped dig up kudzu vines which had taken root.
He got covered in dirt, and I didn’t realize he was in the downstairs shower.
He came out wrapped in a towel with water dripping off his torso.
Our eyes locked in the corridor, and the towel twitched around his groin. His eyes darted to my lips, and I was sure he was going to kiss me. Then Liam ran between us, jiggling up and down and singing about pee as he bolted into the bathroom.
The moment passed with no kiss, but I haven’t been able to get the image out of my mind of his hard torso and what lay beneath to make the towel twitch.
Tonight I was too restless to sleep, replaying the moment over in my head. My mind’s in turmoil, and my body is worse. So I came to the kitchen, the one place I can always find solace.
Except tonight the oven seems too loud and hot, and I spilled the flour on the counter on its way to the bowl. I managed to scoop most of it up, and the rest I used to dust the counter. Now, I roll the pastry over the flour, pushing it out to the edges.
“Hey.”
The deep rumbling voice startles me, and I drop the rolling pin onto the counter.
Grant is in the doorway, framed in the soft kitchen light. He’s in gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt that clings to his muscles. The temperature in the kitchen rises a few degrees.
“I heard a noise in the kitchen. Came to check it out.”
“Sorry to wake you.”
I retrieve the rolling pin and continue rolling out the pastry.
Grant lingers in the doorway, and it was a mistake turning my back to him.
I can feel his eyes on me and my flimsy pajama bottoms. The skin at the back of my neck prickles, and I wipe the perspiration from my forehead with the back of my arm.
“Do you always bake at midnight?”
He saunters into the kitchen and leans against the side counter, watching me.
“I couldn’t sleep.” I don’t tell him he’s the reason. That ever since I saw him in only a towel—that twitched!—I’ve been restless and frustrated. “Baking soothes me.”
He folds his arms and seems content to watch. The rolling pin makes a soft thud-thud noise as it flattens the pastry.
“You’re making Granny’s Cherry Kiss Cookies.”
“Huh.” I didn’t realize he knew the name of the family recipe. “How did you guess?”
“You’ve got the chocolate melted on the stovetop already, and I saw you picking fresh cherries this afternoon.”
I shouldn’t be surprised Grant has noticed the ingredients. He’s the most observant man I’ve ever met. But I am surprised he knows the name of the recipe. I must have mentioned it some time.
“It was my Granny’s favorite.”
He cocks his head, listening. The only sounds are the humming of the oven and ticking of the clock. I pick up a metal cookie cutter; it’s from a set Granny gave me on my eleventh birthday. On a whim, I pick up another size and hold it up to Grant.
“You want to help?”
He hesitates for a moment. Then his lips curl up in a smile. “Sure.”
He takes the cookie cutter, and I make room for him at the counter.
“You hold it straight and press down firm, like this.” I demonstrate, carefully wiggling the cookie cutter and pulling up the round pastry beneath.
Grant watches silently, then tries it himself. He pulls the cookie cutter up and one edge is wonky.
“We’re not looking for perfection.” It’s what Granny used to say to me when she taught me to bake.
The words catch in my throat, and for a moment I miss her more than anything. Her quiet calm, her scent of baked goods, her warm, thick arms and squishy comforting embrace that smelled like burnt sugar.
“You okay?”
Somehow Grant has noticed the change in me.
“I was just thinking about my Granny. She taught me to bake.”
I put the cookie bases onto the baking tray, leaving plenty of room between them. The next step will be to sprinkle cut cherries on top and then cover them with melted chocolate, baking it all in.
We each pick up our cutters and find another piece of the pastry.
For a while we work in silence, the way I used to work with Granny.
I’ve never shared a midnight baking session with anyone but Granny.
And I’ve never shared her favorite recipe.
It loosens something inside of me, and I want to share more.
“After my parents died, the biggest comfort to me was baking with Granny. Sometimes I couldn’t sleep and I’d find her here, in the kitchen.
She never tried to put me back to bed. Instead, she’d put an apron over my pajamas and we’d bake.
We wouldn’t talk, except when she was instructing me on how to sieve the flour or roll the pastry.
But I’d always feel much better afterward. ”
Grant presses out another cookie onto the tray, and this one’s perfectly round. He places it down with a quiet carefulness that’s unexpected in the large ex-soldier.
We’re so close our elbows brush, sending zings of energy up my arm.
Grant turns to me, and our eyes lock. My breathing quickens and need tugs in my core.
For the past week, we’ve danced around each other.
Longer than that, since it’s been three months.
I’ve caught him looking at me so many times that now I’m sure he’s as attracted to me as I am to him.
I’m not sure why he’s holding back, but if he won’t make a move, then I will.
I lean toward him. We’re so close it doesn’t take much. His eyes dart to my lips, and I don’t give him time to back away. Gently, I press my lips to his.
Grant goes still, and I pull back. I’ve done the wrong thing and messed it all up.
“I’m sorry…” I don’t get to finish my sentence.
Grant pulls me toward him. His lips crash into mine, and his hand slides to the back of my neck.
His mouth is heated and insistent, and I allow his tongue entry.
The kiss deepens, and its warm tendrils spread down my neck and chest and into my core, lighting everything up as it goes.
The need that’s simmered in me all week boils over, and I slide my arms around his neck, drawing him closer to me. He groans as my body brushes against his, and I feel him grow hard.
Then he’s pulling away, and we stare at each other. I’m panting and hot, and my desire is reflected in his eyes.
His hands slide down my back and around my waist until he’s holding me at the hips.
“You’re too good for me, Hannah.”
But he doesn’t release me. There’s a battle going on inside Grant that I don’t understand, but I want desire to win.
Slowly, I roll my hips against him, against the hard mound sticking out from his sweatpants.
“I doubt that, Grant.”
He groans and closes his eyes, and I slide my hand down his neck, over the ridge of his muscular torso, down his washboard abs, and into the waistband of his sweatpants. Until I find his hard cock and encircle it with my hand.
His eyes fly open, and the desire in them burns hotter than a furnace.
“Hannah…” His voice is a groan as I tug my hand along the length of his cock.
“I want you, Grant. I need you.” It’s easier to confess in the quiet of the kitchen. “Don’t you want me too?”
His eyes blaze, and I taste victory. “Oh honey, you’re the only thing I want.”
His lips crash against mine, and his hands grab my backside as he grinds himself against my aching core.