27. Bridget
CHAPTER 27
Bridget
“Sure you’re ready to meet my parents?” Ethan asks.
“I’ve already met your mom, and I really liked her.”
“Yeah, she’s great. The girls are excited to meet you, and I think you’ll like my dad too. That’s assuming he even makes it. There are always a lot of plumbing emergencies around Thanksgiving. One year, he got called out on a job that kept him out most of the day. Apparently, a toddler tried to flush half the turkey down the toilet and ended up clogging it so badly they needed a plumber to snake it, which led to a bigger issue they uncovered.”
My eyes shoot to him in surprise. “Please, do tell me more about this disgusting toilet discovery while we prepare a lovely meal for your family,” I say sarcastically.
“Suffice it to say, those flushable wipes aren’t actually flushable, despite what the package may say. It was a costly repair involving digging up pipes in their front yard.”
“Lovely. What is it with you and poop?”
“I only asked you once, and it was a valid part of your post-op care.”
I can’t help the laugh that pops out of me as he darts around the island and grabs me from behind, lifting me in the air. “You enjoy fucking with me, don’t you?”
“I can think of something I enjoy more, pup.”
He sets me down and slaps my ass, leaving an impressive sting before he rubs it in soothing circles. “First we cook, then we fuck.” He reaches around me and pulls two aprons out of the drawer. He loops the strap around my neck before tying the strings around my waist and kissing my neck.
The kitchen feels warm and inviting when he’s in it with me, and I’ve grown to love our time cooking together over the past few months. Ethan walks to his overnight bag and pulls out a small green plastic box. It looks worn and resembles something I’d once used in grade school to organize notecards for studying before I came up with my study guides.
“What’s that?”
“This is probably the most valuable thing I own.” He sets the box in front of me and gestures with his hands for me to open it. My hands glide along the cool granite of the island before clasping the box, its texture slightly bumpy in my hands. Small pieces of dried food and flour dot the surface of the box.
“For a chef, I figured this would be cleaner.”
“That’s part of the magic of what’s inside.”
Popping the lid open, my fingers trace over the rough edges of multiple note cards before settling on a random card near the middle of the box and pulling it out. “Peach cobbler,” I announce.
“Number thirty-seven. That’s a good one. It tastes better when you use fresh peaches. I prefer Red Haven, a variety of peach from Michigan. It’s a sweet peach with very little fuzz. Nonna and I tried numerous other varieties, but Red Havens always made the best cobbler.”
I glance at him in confusion, but he nods his head toward the card. I turn it over to see a small “37” written on the top left of the card. With the way I was holding it, there’s no way he would’ve seen the number on the back. “Do you have all of these memorized?”
“I do. My Nonna is the one who taught me how to cook and encouraged me to go to culinary school, much to my dad’s disapproval.” I look at him curiously. “He didn’t go to college, and I think he was hoping I would, but my dreams were elsewhere. Ever since Ashley brought Nonna into my life, cooking became my passion. We’d spend weekends making almost every recipe in that box, perfecting each one. For my eighteenth birthday, Nonna gave me her recipe box with every meal we’d ever prepared and a few more we’d never tried. She’s the one who supported my cooking more than anyone else.”
“That’s incredible. It kind of feels serendipitous, in a way, to be standing here with this.” I say, gesturing to the recipe box.
“How so?”
“Well, you do make my favorite meal, and I assume that’s because of her.”
His dimple is out on full display as his emerald eyes bore into mine. “It is.”
“And now we’re going to pick something from here to make together.”
I continue flipping through the cards, struggling to find a rhyme or reason for how they are arranged. “Is there an organizational system here? My left brain is freaking out because there are desserts next to appetizers. I think my eye is starting to twitch.”
The sound of Ethan’s low laugh fills the room. It’s deep and booming, small crinkles appearing around his eyes as he throws his head back, tremors rocking his body, shoulders heaving. “Fuck, I love—” Another laugh escapes his body, cutting him off.
For a second, I wonder if he’s about to make a declaration, and in this moment, I decide that the way he could finish that sentence doesn’t scare me. I try to maintain my composure. “I don’t understand what’s so funny.”
Strong hands wipe at his eyes, the tears gathering on the pads of his fingers. “I just love how your mind works. How you’re unabashedly… well, you.” He sobers a bit as he stares at the box. “A part of my heart breaks every time I look at one of these notecards. Seeing Nonna’s handwriting and smelling the weathered cards always gets to me. I’m half convinced that my tears are a secret ingredient at this point because it’s hard not to be overwhelmed with grief when I use these cards. I usually don’t have to pull them out that often since I have them all memorized now.”
“Bullshit.”
“Try me. Give me any number, one through two hundred eighty-six.”
“One hundred ninety-one.”
He lets out a small chuckle. “That one is a crockpot lasagna. She was so pissed at me. I think I was around fourteen, and I had so much going on with school. I was helping watch the girls in the afternoon, so I didn’t have much time to cook and finish my homework by the time track practice was over. Ella was around eight, I think, and was super picky. All she wanted to eat was lasagna, but I didn’t have time to make it, and she wouldn’t eat it if it was frozen. Said that she could ‘taste the ice crystals’ or something, and I needed a lasagna recipe that wouldn’t take me a lot of time. Nonna was born in Italy and thought cooking lasagna in a crockpot was a sin, especially because you could throw the uncooked boxed noodles in. She gave me so much shit.”
He smiles briefly before clearing his throat and continuing, “It’s the only Italian meal we ever prepared where she allowed me to use premade boxed noodles. Normally, we made our own from scratch. It wasn’t half bad. I mean, nothing compares to her actual lasagna—number forty-three, in case you’re wondering.” I flip through the cards and grab number forty-three and blink, stunned that he can remember that. “But it was good, and Ella liked it. I’d throw everything in the crockpot before school, set it to low, and it’d be ready by dinner.”
The shock on my face must be evident, so he nods to the box, and it feels like he’s daring me to pick another one. “Number two hundred sixty-one.”
“Oh, that’s a good one. My buddy Maddox had invited me to a cookout, and I had the best potato salad I’d ever tasted. I came home and told Nonna all about it, and we tried so many variations to replicate it. Turns out it was an Amish potato salad that was sweet and tangy.”
“That sounds delicious.”
“It is.” He grins at me, his dimple on full display. “Satisfied?” I nod slowly, in awe of this amazing man. “So, like I was saying, I usually can’t look at these recipe cards without breaking down at some point because each one is a memory of a time with her that I’ll never get back. But you healed me by simply being you, pulling me out of my head before I could spiral.”
“How’d I do that?”
“Your fucking left brain. Of all the things you could’ve said or asked. You couldn’t get over the lack of organization. I bet you want to go through this box and organize them, don’t you?”
I can feel my face flush at his suggestion as I nod in agreement. That’s exactly what I want to do, and it’s bothering me that there isn’t a system in place to organize them. How do you find what you need quickly? It doesn’t seem efficient. His hand glides up my cheek, gently squeezing my face and pulling me out of my thoughts.
“They are organized chronologically based on when we first made each dish. She numbered each one on the back.”
I flip the card in my hand, staring again at the small number before returning it to the box. My fingers move to the back of the box and pull out a card with the number three hundred on it. Holding it up to him, I ask, “I thought you said there were two hundred and eighty-six?”
“I told you to pick a number up to that. There are three hundred cards in there. We had planned to make the last fourteen recipes but never got the chance. Her cancer spread quicker than we’d anticipated, and she was bedridden the last several months of her life.”
I place a hand on his chest, gaze into his eyes, and whisper, “I’m so sorry.” I return the card to the box and withdraw another. Flipping it in my hand, I notice several marks on the back. “What are all the little tick marks?”
“That’s how many times we made each recipe.”
“And the stars on some of these?” I pull out another card, examining it closely.
“Those are secret recipes that only the two of us know. Each one of those has an ingredient missing from the instructions. Only she and I know what’s missing and how to incorporate it.”
“This is incredible. It’s like a timeline of your relationship.”
“It is. It’s why I tear up when I see them, and all those memories come flooding back. It’s also why I’m so grateful for the way your brain works and the levity you provide. The joy you bring to my life calms me. It provides a balance I never knew I needed, so thank you.” He wraps me in his arms, kissing the top of my head as we stand there holding each other, our breathing becoming synchronized. And in this moment, it truly feels like he’s part of me, that we are part of each other. Two souls destined to find one another despite our ages or backgrounds.
“Thank you for sharing this with me, for letting me be a part of this.”
His hand snakes along my neck and fists my hair, touching me and holding me in place as his eyes bore into mine. His nose trails along my jaw, and I can feel his deep inhale as he murmurs in my ear. “Berries and vanilla, so fucking good.”
Pulling back slightly, he guides my mouth to his in a bruising kiss. His tongue licks at the seam of my lips, and I open for him. Warmth pools in my core as he fills me with passion, his mouth taking while his tongue teases, giving me the pleasure I crave that only he can provide. Breaking the kiss, his other hand grabs my waist, squeezing and tickling as a loud laugh spills out of me.
“Ethan,” I cry between laughs. “What are you doing?”
“Making a core memory by engaging every one of my senses. I want to burn this into my brain, this moment here with you. This is something I want to remember every fucking day for the rest of my life. The way you feel in my hands. The way your eyes light up. The incredible way you smell. The way you taste sweet and sensual. And the melodic way you laugh. Fuck, I can’t get enough of you.”
He presses his lips to mine again, and I can feel his hunger for me grow. His arms pull me in tighter as his hips start rocking against me, his erection becoming hard to ignore.
“I want you so bad right now,” he growls in my ear as his tongue licks down my neck before stopping on that sweet spot where it meets my shoulder.
“First, we cook, then we fuck. Those were your words, were they not?” I practically moan as he sucks on that spot on my neck, pulling the sensitive flesh into his mouth hard before soothing it with a kiss. I pull back, giving him a playful swat on the chest. “You’re not giving me a hickey the day before we see your family. I’m already freaking out about meeting them.”
That fucking dimple has me backing down as he places tender kisses on my swollen lips. The way he smiles at me makes my chest tighten. “Mom can’t stop talking about how great you are. She’s been begging to meet us for lunch again. And my sisters are all going to love you. You have nothing to worry about.”
“And your dad? Jesus Christ, he’s going to think I’m some kind of cougar. Or sugar mama.”
“I don’t give a fuck if he does. I’ve made my way despite him. Hell, I’ve had to bail his ass out financially several times, and I’ve also watched the girls so he could pick up extra shifts. He knows I’m fully capable of taking care of myself financially. And the fact that I spend more nights over here than I do at my place has nothing to do with how much you make and more to do with privacy. Unless you prefer to go to my place where we can listen to Alyx have loud group sex through the thin apartment walls?”
“That might be kind of hot, actually.”
“Does my hellcat need to go back to the sex club?”
“Maybe there’s another one we can try? I’m not too keen on running into my CEO again. Thankfully, he didn’t see me, or I don’t think he did anyway. He hasn’t acted any differently toward me at work.”
“I can ask Alyx if he knows of any other clubs. But right now, I need you to decide what dish we’re bringing tomorrow. And choose wisely. Whether or not they accept you hinges on what dish you pick.”
Rolling my eyes, I pin him with a look.
“I’m only fucking with you. Seriously, they are going to love you. Lizzy’s already made you a bracelet.”
“She did?”
“Yup. She sent me a pic last night. You’re one of us now.” He winks.
The recipe box feels heavy in my hands, the decision weighing on me. I carefully flip through the cards as I read over each one, before stopping on the perfect dish. Pulling the card out, I proudly hold it up as I declare, “This one.”
If I wasn’t looking at him, I’d miss the way his forehead crinkles in worry. The movement is so brief, but I catch it, and it fills me with doubt. “Do you think someone else will be bringing sweet potato casserole?”
“No one else will be bringing that,” he replies, his voice so low I almost don’t hear him.
“What’s wrong?” The despondent look on his face gives me pause.
“Nothing, I just haven’t made that one in a long time.”
“Aren’t up to the challenge?” I try to shake him out of his sudden melancholy as he chews on his lips, a small furrow returning to his brow.
He straightens and blows out a long breath before turning to the oven to preset. Before I can say anything else, he’s returning from the small pantry, his arms full of ingredients as he sets them down on the counter. The fact that he won’t look at me and hasn’t said anything has anxiety bubbling up in my chest, causing me to worry I’ve said the wrong thing. He just said he liked my teasing, but he’s not bantering back now.
“Ethan, it’s okay. We can make something else.”
His movements still as he looks over at me. “Sorry, I…” His words trail off as his head drops, his arms leaning against the island for support. A smaller shudder racks his body before he straightens up and wipes his cheeks.
“Really, I can pick another one,” I insist.
“I told you I would do anything you asked of me, and I want to do this with you, I promise. That one holds extra memories, and I just—fuck, I just need a minute. I promise you, I’m okay.”
I grab his cheek and pull his head down to mine, gently kissing his forehead.
The warmth I felt against him fades as I move to the other end of the island, giving him space as I examine the card. It’s card number five, one of the first, so it must be important to him if they’ve been making it that long. Based on the number of tick marks on the back, twenty-two, it must be a favorite. There’s no star on this card, so it doesn’t hold any secrets, but it’s obvious it’s well-loved by the way the ink is smeared and the edges of the card are bent. Flipping the card over, I examine the ingredients and start matching them up with what Ethan’s piled onto the counter, but he interrupts me before I can finish.
“If you’re looking for marshmallows, you aren’t going to find them. Nonna didn’t think marshmallows were fancy enough for the type of gourmet dishes she preferred. ‘Marshmallows only belong in hot chocolate, s’mores, and Rice Krispie treats, and heaven help you if you need a recipe for any of those things,’ she’d say.”
I can’t help but chuckle every time he does an impression of his Nonna. “You realize that you hunch your shoulders when you quote her? It’s kind of adorable.”
His cheeks turn pink, and he shakes his head, smiling to himself as if recalling a favorite memory.
“What can I do?” I ask, placing the card back in the box so it won’t get dirty.
“First, we need to wash, peel, and cut the sweet potatoes,” he says as he fills a pot with water and places it on the stove.
I move to the sink, bag in hand, and pull out a sweet potato to begin scrubbing. Ethan comes up behind me, setting a bowl to my left before he covers my hands with his, helping me wash the potato.
“This reminds me of that scene in Ghost when they make the pottery,” I tell him. “Except we’re washing potatoes, not making art.”
“Some would argue that a good meal is art,” he murmurs against my ear, nipping on the lobe before he turns away and melts butter in a pan on the stove.
“Your cooking is art, and I’ll happily indulge in every creation,” I promise as I continue scrubbing.
We finish our parts, me scrubbing, peeling, and chopping as Ethan completes the topping for the dish. It’s a streusel-like concoction, and I lean over to smell it. “What’s in this?”
“Butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and flour. Then I add chopped pecans,” he explains as he turns to check the boiling potatoes. “Want to stir that for me?”
“Did you add bourbon to this? It has a little bit of a smoky flavor,” I ask as my finger swipes the side of the bowl.
“I added a little in when melting the butter. Nonna swore it was for flavoring, but I’m convinced she liked to drink while we cooked. She would always sample the booze we added.” He smiles to himself, reliving the memory in his head.
After draining the water, he dumps the potatoes into a bowl and mashes them with a fork. I’m mesmerized by his movements, his biceps and forearms flexing with each stroke of his hand.
“Eyes up here, hellcat,” he teases as he mixes the butter, brown sugar, nutmeg, and salt until they are fully incorporated before he folds in two eggs. “I also like to sprinkle a little cinnamon in to intensify the nutmeg. And then I add a little maple syrup to give it a warm, caramel flavor,” he explains before turning to the counter and grabbing an orange. “But the real trick is a little orange zest to brighten up the flavor profile. The citrus flavor complements the sweetness of the potatoes.” He shaves off the outer rind of the orange and stirs it in before scraping it into the pan and adding the topping.
“I feel like I was privy to some trade secrets here. Is that it?”
“Now it bakes for forty minutes.”
“I don’t have the card memorized like you, but I can check to see if you forgot any steps.”
“No need, it’s all up here.” He taps the side of his head, flashing his dimple at me in a big grin as he gathers all the bowls and spoons to wash in the sink.
Together, we clean up our mess, him scrubbing and washing, me drying.
“There’s something I want to prepare you for tomorrow,” he begins, handing me a pot to dry.
Toweling the dish off, I set it on the counter. “What is it?”
“I told you Lizzy is autistic and nonverbal.”
“Yes.”
“I just want you to be prepared in case she doesn’t react to you the way you’re expecting.”
“I appreciate that. I’ve been around children before, but I don’t have a lot of experience with anyone on the spectrum. Is there anything I should know?” I ask, understanding how important this is to him.
“She has sensory issues, especially with loud noises. They tend to overwhelm her and can send her into a panic attack. While Lizzy prefers to spend a lot of time in her room, we’re careful not to yell too much in the house so we don’t trigger her. It’s hard with that many people, especially when emotions run high, but she does have a pair of noise-canceling headphones that help.”
“Good to know.”
“Also, she has difficulty making and maintaining eye contact. I don’t want you to think she’s rude if she doesn’t look at you or speak to you. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you.”
“Got it. Is there anything I can do to make her comfortable?”
“Just be yourself around her. I’ve already told her a lot about you and shown her your picture, so she’ll be prepared.”
He leans in and kisses my temple as he hands me the last utensil to dry. Fuck, it’s getting harder to keep these feelings for him inside, and I wonder if he knows already. His ability to read me is so profound it’s as though he’s deciphering a language only we understand.