Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Cannon
I keep a respectable distance between us on the way back to Reed’s car so that he doesn’t become the talk of the town. As soon as we get out of here, though, he’s mine.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks a little suspiciously, glancing back at me with those wide, thoughtful eyes that look like maple syrup in the sun.
I just raise my eyebrows and watch the blush spread across his cheeks.
“Jesus,” he mumbles. I can’t tell if he speeds up to get to our not-date sooner or to run away from me.
His fluffy curls laced with silver around the temples bounce in the breeze, and he keeps raking them back impatiently.
There’s a sweet awkwardness to his body, an uncertainty about how to move and take up space.
I think it’s half shyness and half the huge transformation he’s been through in the last six years.
“I thought of some activity ideas for today in case we couldn’t come up with anything,” he ventures as we cross the street in front of the school. Of course he gave himself homework. “We could get lunch, or see a movie, or rent some scooters by the water in Milwaukee.”
“No, no.” Heading for the bike rack, I unlock my clunker and wheel it between us to Reed’s basic white Honda Accord. “You’re listing first dates. We’re already in a relationship, remember?”
He frowns speculatively as I pop the front wheel off my bike and figure out how to jenga it all into his spotless trunk. “In that case I have no idea what to do.”
“Which is what long-term couples say most of the time.”
“Point taken.” Ducking his head, he grins sheepishly.
“Lead the way, then.” When I pluck the keys out of his palm, he lets me without complaint.
I’ve always known I liked control in a relationship, that I have a gift for it.
I try to date guys who get as much out of it as I do.
But I’ve never met someone who bent to it so immediately without giving up an ounce of his own personality.
Shit, it’s been ten minutes and I’m already trying to figure out why the fuck he won’t date someone and how I can change his mind.
Reed settles in the passenger seat and puts on a quiet but upbeat folk playlist, eyeing me to see if I object.
I reward his contribution by slipping my hand around the gear shift and resting it on his thigh.
He goes still for a moment, staring at it, then relaxes slowly as my skin heats against his jeans.
“What should we make for lunch?” I ask as I back his car out of the lot and head for the highway.
“The true couple experience would be something like I don’t know, I’m too tired, let’s just order pizza. ”
He brightens up, too excited to even laugh at my joke.
“Oh, I love cooking. I could never run out of ideas. Let’s see…
” He squints out the windshield as he thinks, then grabs my hand excitedly, his long fingers curling between mine.
“I have this easy twist on a caprese salad, with melon and prosciutto. And we can have bread and oil on the side because—” He eyes my bulk with a tiny smile.
“You don’t look like you’d get full up on a salad. ”
“That sounds great, baby.”
His eyes go wide, his head swiveling toward me, and now I’m the one blushing. That was…not planned. It just came out. He’s so fucking precious, and I can still taste his mouth, and this is all more confusing than I expected.
“I’m sorry,” I force myself to say, even though I’m not.
“Was that too much—” I break off when he delicately flips my hand over and laces our fingers together.
He has long, gangly hands with wide knuckles that make me wonder if he was ever made to feel self-conscious about them before he transitioned, or about the fact that he’s over six feet tall.
I hope he knows that everything about him was always perfect, because this is what he was supposed to become.
“It wasn’t too much,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop. This is exactly what I wanted—I’m just not used to it.” That damn sadness creeps into his eyes as he studies the trees flicking past, but he just tightens his grip on me like he has no plans to let go any time soon.
After fifteen minutes of contented silence that feel as blissful as those cozy Saturday morning dreams you don’t want to wake up from, we pull into the parking lot of a shopping center that’s been taken over by a large farmers market.
“They should have everything for your salad,” I offer, watching Reed bounce around in his seat and crane his neck to spy on people’s purchases.
“I used to love coming here,” he confesses as we get out of the car. “I wonder if the person with the blueberry goat cheese still has a booth.”
“Excuse me, what?” I hook an arm around his shoulders and tug him against me, dropping a quick kiss on his jaw. He smells like fresh, citrusy soap. “That’s disgusting.”
“It’s not,” he insists, trying and failing to push me away as he dissolves into laughter. “We’ll get samples, you’ll see.”
“Okay, find your ingredients and I’ll carry everything.” I send him in the direction of the booths with a light swat on his ass.
This whole week I’ve been telling myself I’m fine, that losing my job didn’t destroy me.
I had no idea how much tension I was carrying in my body until I spent thirty minutes following Reed around the market with my arms full of his purchases.
Nothing else has soothed the ache like watching him painstakingly compare the shape of every single tomato and knock on all twenty-six cantaloupes just in case one is better than the others.
“Look Cannon, these are so cool.” Reed waves me over to a booth selling bentwood accessories. I peer over the top of our shopping bags at the glossy rings and bangles with layers of dark and light wood.
“Oh sure, those are fun to make. I added a super clean gold inlay to mine, made them look really expensive.”
He lowers the bracelet in his hand, gaping at me. “You know how to make these?”
I can’t help but laugh at the understatement. We never got around to the part where I tell him about myself. “I’m an artisan wood- and metal-worker by trade, but you can name any hand craft in the world and I’ve probably tried it a few times.”
“So you really are a Viking,” he blurts, reaching up to touch my braid. His excited grin widens when I burst out laughing. “Wait, so do you know how to make those?” He points at a booth of stained glass suncatchers in the shape of various birds.
“Glass takes a lot of finesse, so I’m still learning. But I made a stained glass window inlay for my grandma’s house.”
“Are you serious?” Grabbing the hem of my shirt, he tows me further down the row of booths. “What about those?”
I shrug at the shelves of hand-carved animals. “Those are easy.”
“And these?” This time it’s a display of colorful woven rugs.
“Weaving was fun. I went upstate to a sheep farm and learned how to dye the wool myself.” Now I’m just showing off, but how the hell could I not when no one in my life has ever looked at me quite like this?
Everyone either takes my skills for granted, because I’ve always had them, or tells me I’m still not good enough.
“Really? Was it fun?” Reed studies me with awe as the sun spills down onto his messy hair. “I’ve spent years trying to get my school to fund a field trip to a wool farm when we’re studying the Middle Ages. Is it hard to weave things? Do you think I could do it?”
Since my arms are full, I lean forward and bump my forehead gently against his.
“I think you could do anything you want.” Suddenly I’m trying hard not to imagine a cozy long weekend with him in the workshop, showing him how to make anything and everything he sets his heart on.
The thought puts me in a weird, moody headspace I don’t like, not when we only have a few hours together.
“Here, give me a couple of those bags,” he murmurs, stealing them from my arms. It’s the first time he’s ever ordered me to do something.
When I shoot him a weird look, he just shakes his head at me with a small smile.
Apparently those ten extra years of life gave him the ability to read my mind and stop me from spiraling.
Or maybe he’s feeling the same need, deep down.
We browse the market for another hour as Reed forces me to complete the tour of every craft I’ve ever made and feeds me a sample of blueberry goat cheese. It’s just as disgusting as I expected, but he happily buys a piece for himself.
“Are you okay with spending the rest of the day at my place?” I ask as we carry our produce to the car. I’ve grappled with so many emotions already this morning that I’m starting to feel unsure. “If that’s boring or makes you uncomfortable, we can do one of the things you said.”
“You shouldn’t second guess yourself,” he lectures in his teacher voice, piling bags into the back seat. “You wanted to boss me around, right? And I’m telling you to go all out, because I have zero complaints so far.”
A warm thrill runs deep through my core. This is good for him. That’s all I want in the world right now.
Reed makes a startled noise when he turns around to find me right behind him, our faces two inches apart.
I rest my hands lightly on his hips, and he shivers.
“Do you still want me to fuck you later?” I would have phrased it more romantically, but I was right—the crudeness of the word fuck combusts him just the way I wanted.
“It’s okay if you changed your mind,” I add, but he shakes his head quickly.
“No. I mean, yes?” He flounders, confused by my wording. “Please fuck me.” As soon as it comes out, he buries his face in his hands with a groan. “How dare you trick me into talking like that?”
“Damn, try to hold yourself together until after lunch.”
I don’t know what makes me laugh harder, the way he winds up and punches my shoulder or the look on his face as he stammers apologies for the weakest hit anyone has ever landed on me.