Chapter 46
JADE
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HE SLIDES THE mixing bowl to me but stands far enough away that I can’t touch him.
“Alright, first, we’re going to sift the flour into the bowl.”
“We?” I take the bowl, tilting my head and dragging my teeth over my lower lip. “Are you going to show me how?”
He growls so deep in his chest that he sounds like an animal.
I love it.
“You haven’t sifted flour before?” His fingers curl firmly around the chipped green-painted handle of my mama’s sifter.
“Maybe.” I step closer.
His jaw ticks.
“You look scared of me.” I don’t know how to describe the thrill of knowing he’s barely holding onto his ability to keep his hands off me.
Exhilarating.
Spiralling.
Fiercely untamed.
“That’s an understatement.” He lifts the shoulder of my robe to cover my skin.
My head tilts, watching the action, and then I meet his eyes. “Was that distracting?”
“That’s another understatement.”
I smile.
“Don’t smile like that, all knowing and teasin’, and—”
I take the sifter. “At this rate, we’ll still be baking at midnight.” I turn my back to him and grab the flour. “How much?”
He tells me, and I dump the white dust into the measuring cup.
I feel his body press behind me. “You do know how to do it.”
I laugh. “I baked with my Meemaw Landry when she was alive. Not Meemaw Fox, she was always at the lodge with my parents.”
I begin pouring the flour into the sifter when his fingers skim my nape, and he pulls my hair aside.
The shiver that follows nearly makes me spill the flour. Then his mouth is on my skin, warm and claiming.
“This is not fair.” I pull the trigger, and the mesh inside starts spinning, releasing a soft cloud of flour. “You wanted to bake a cake and now I’m baking it, while you’re playing.”
He nips my neck. “You’re right.” His mouth is gone, and I instantly miss it.
I should’ve kept my darn mouth shut.
His palms press the counter on either side of me, and I crave those gorgeous, rough hands running all over my skin.
“Tell me more about your Meemaw.” He forces the words painfully out.
“She kept a drawer full of cookie cutters shaped like woodland animals. Natalie was always taking off with them to play farm animals in a corner.”
He scoops a teaspoon into the baking soda with me trapped in front of him, between his arms.
“She’d let us mix the dough with our hands.” My fingers continue to click the sifter. “She said it built character.”
“Smart woman.” He dumps the dry ingredients into my bowl as he measures them out.
“She was.” My voice is soft with my memories of her. “My parents were always busy at the lodge, and I practically lived at the front desk.” I set the sifter on the counter as he stirs the ingredients before sliding the bowl away.
“I know that childhood.” Without measuring, he takes a chunk of butter, drops it in a small bowl, and begins to cream it into the sugar.
His forearms flex at my sides. I can’t see them through the robe, but I feel them, and I can envision the muscles and the web of veins that snake over his biceps.
If I weren’t wet between the legs before we started, I would be now. But this man wants to bake a random cake on a day meant for such a cake. Not that he remembers, and not that I expect him to.
“But when Meemaw showed up, she always made time for us.” I rest my hands on his as he continues to cream the butter, unable to resist touching him. “Crafts, baking, sewing. Whatever kept our hands busy while teaching us.”
His hands move steadily, the subtle ridges of his skin against mine.
“She taught us everything she knew, so we’d grow up capable, independent, and free to build good lives on our own.”
“She sounds like an amazing person.” He kisses the side of my head, and that light action feels like everything I’ve ever wanted.
“She was. I miss her.”
He cracks an egg against the side of the bowl, splits it open over the sugar and creamed butter, and then holds out the next one to me.
As I crack the egg, I expect his lips to resume their spot on my neck, but instead, he beats the mixture before adding it slowly to the dry ingredients, stirring between each addition.
His whisking isn’t exactly graceful. It’s more like he’s trying to keep his hands moving and off me.
“Your Meemaw reminds me of my Ma.” A dusting of flour clings to his knuckles. “Raised us on grit and powdered sugar. She always says if a man can’t make cornbread and fold a fitted sheet, he’s got no business calling himself grown.”
His focus is intense, like he’s trying really hard to keep it together and not scoop me up and take me on this counter.
I love the idea.
“I’d pay good money to see you fold a fitted sheet.” I rest my head on his chest and tilt my head to take in this view of him.
His familiar scruff, strong angles, lashes shadowing his cheek, all just here, so close.
“I’ll add it to the list. Right after I impress you with my highly experimental cake.” He smirks down at me and kisses my forehead.
My insides swoon. These little kisses are going to be the undoing of me.
“I thought you knew what you’re doing?”
“I have a rough idea.”
I dip a finger into the batter and taste.
“It’s good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.” I dip my finger and lift it to him.
He doesn’t give it a second thought, and my finger disappears in his mouth.
He grins when he finishes licking the batter off. “We’re not making another mess. We’ve done enough laundry today.”
I laugh.
The whole room is warmer, and I didn’t realize he turned on the stove until the cake is safely inside.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and fold my arms, eyeing him. “Now what? We wait twenty-five minutes and awkwardly stare at each other from a distance?”
He grins and turns his back to me. When he faces me, he’s holding a CD Player. But not just any CD player, but the Discman he gave me.
“Where—how—did you get that?”
He takes a step toward me. “Natalie gave it to me at the bar. She said you held onto it all these years.”
“I thought I lost it.” How did she get it?
“She told me to talk to you before you convinced yourself to forget me for good.”
My eyes sweep up to his. “I’m so glad you listened.”
He shrugs. “It took a little more convincing, but she got me on track.” He steps closer, eyes glinting the way I know I’m in trouble, but in a good way.
He slides the Discman in his pocket and separates a pair of wire earbuds and hands one to me. The first soft chords of a familiar song plays—our song.
“I recently unravelled to this song under your touch.”
He chuckles. “We played this CD on repeat that year. In all our hiding places. In my truck.” He sucks a breath through his teeth, still inching closer to me. “The making out that happened in that truck.”
I nod, a strange mix of nostalgia and longing pulsing through me. “The places we’d sneak, so no one could find us. The hill on your uncle’s property.”
“I loved that damn hill.” He reaches for my hand, and I let him pull me close.
Our robes brush together. His hand finds the small of my back, and my hand is on his chest, fingers splayed over the steady rise and fall of his breath.
The kitchen feels less like an Airbnb and more like one of those secret places where we’d always felt safe.
We start to move.
Not dancing, not really. Just swaying. Slow, idle circles with our bodies pressing together like we’re one person.
He rests his forehead against mine, letting the past and present fold over us. “I’ve missed this.”
“Me too,” I breathe.
He begins to sway, a slow, fluid motion, guiding me with pressure at my back. Our robes shift with every movement, brushing against each other. The light friction kindles the fire inside me.
“I’ve missed you.” His voice is lower than a whisper.
I smile at him. “Me too.”
He tilts my head, and his kiss is tender and unhurried at first, exploring and teasing while being familiar and incredible.
My hands slide from his chest, and my fingers trace the line of his collarbone. He hums our song softly against my mouth.
There’s no urgency, only a quiet, mutual understanding.
“You’re beautiful.” His words send a rush of warmth through me, and I lean into him, our foreheads touching again.
His eyes take me in as if memorizing every line of my face. I do the same to him, learning all the new lines, dips, and dark dusting stubble from age.
“I never want to let you go.” His lips find the curve of my shoulder, pressing a kiss there.
I tilt my head to the side, giving him better access, and he takes it, his mouth trailing up the side of my neck, his teeth grazing my earlobe just enough to make me shiver.
“Then don’t.” I press my flat palms against his chest.
His arousal presses against my stomach, a silent acknowledgment of the desire that simmers just beneath the surface.
But we don’t rush it.
There’s something sacred about this slow build, this quiet exploration of each other.
He spins me away, ripping the cord out of me ear. We laugh, replacing it and he pulls me back tighter.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
He smiles a small, private smile that’s just for me. “I’m thinking about how lucky I am to have this. To have you.”
His words send a wave of emotion through me, and I feel my eyes well up with unshed tears.
Tears.
Just the thought of it makes me cringe inside. But I take a breath and don’t let my fears invade. It’s okay to let my feelings out, as much as my first instinct is to keep them hidden inside so I never get hurt again.
I press my hand against his cheek, my thumb brushing his jawline. “I feel the same.”
The next kiss is hungry, yet still tender, a perfect balance of passion and restraint. His tongue brushes against mine, and a jolt of desire starts low in my belly and spreads through my entire body.
We do this long after our song ends. Long after the song that follows. Kissing and touching over the robe, while swaying to the melody. Like we’re those two teenagers unsure how far to go but completely satisfied where we are right now.
Kissing.
Caressing.
Dancing.