Death by Chocolate
LILA
The weeks settle into a rhythm as my ankle heals.
Slade goes out to Wild Rose early and returns for dinner, while I take Lucky to the boutique with me.
Sadly I have to put a pause on my shifts at the animal shelter, since I’m pretty useless if I can’t move around a lot, but at least it’s not affecting my day-to-day work.
Slade cooks for us. Hearty, healthy meals, the diet of a professional athlete, with a concession towards carbs for my benefit. He gets out early to work on Wild Rose because cowboys have obscenely early wakeup calls, apparently, but he leaves a plate for me every morning before I come downstairs.
He makes dinner too. Lucky has figured out the schedule and sits by the kitchen door at five thirty every evening without fail, waiting for him to come through it.
Slade makes her homemade dog food, and day by day, her belly is filling out, her coat coming in glossy, her eyes getting brighter.
She’s got the glow of a well-loved lady now.
Those eyes of hers positively overflow with adoration every time Slade comes through the door. She even forgives him for cutting her nails, though she does like to come limping pitifully to me right after he does it, just for extra head rubs.
For someone who’s giving Lucky a “temporary” home, he’s a very dedicated dog dad.
Not to mention, an amazing husband.
I’m getting spoiled. One day, when I’m single again—and I need to keep saying that to myself, single again, because I keep forgetting it’s a when and not an if—I’m going to have to go back to skipped breakfasts and cereal for dinner and nobody leaving a plate for me before I come downstairs in the morning.
I need to stop getting used to this.
But in the meantime, I have my husband looking out for me.
I want to do something in return for him. Not out of guilt or to balance the scales. No, I just want to make Slade happy. To take care of him the way he takes care of me.
If I thought for a second he’d welcome it, I’d happily thank him in a certain type of way. Like on my knees. Or on all fours. Or riding him like a cowgirl.
But I’m not brave enough to make the first move, and I know it would be a bad idea anyway if I did. I’m not about to knowingly check myself into the honeymoon suite at the Heartbreak Hotel.
So here I am, wondering what else I can do for my husband that doesn’t involve me throwing myself at him.
I’m not much of a cook, but I bake, and so I start baking. Pumpkin bread and cinnamon streusel muffins to take with him on his long days on the ranch. Dark chocolate brownies and huckleberry cobbler with vanilla bean ice cream for dessert after we eat dinner.
And then there’s the house.
I’m supposed to be his interior designer. This is supposed to be professional. Except I keep making decisions that are completely, embarrassingly personal, like it’s my own home I’m furnishing.
The evidence is everywhere. The antique wood sideboard I sourced on a trip to Paris and would have brought back to my own little apartment if I could have fit it there.
The layers of rugs and throw blankets and collection of oil paintings I’ve been saving secretly for some imaginary dream home of mine.
The little herb garden of sage and mint and rosemary on the windowsill that I keep lovingly watering, as if it’s not going to be left to die when I move out and Slade moves to Denver.
But for now, the dream home is here, and it happens to come with the dream husband too.
Slade says yes to everything I suggest. Every single thing, without hesitation, which is gratifying but dangerous because it means I have no checks on myself whatsoever.
“I love it,” he said, the first evening he came home to the finished living room.
He stood in the doorway taking it in. The deep green velvet curtains, the hand-knotted wool rug, the shearling reading chair by the fire.
He looked at me with that slight, adorable awkwardness he gets when he’s trying to give a compliment and added, “The chair especially. It’s very… fuzzy.”
Now that I’ve finally sourced the perfect vintage dining table and eclectic mismatched chairs, I start setting up our dinners at that table, complete with some candlelight.
When Slade comes in from the ranch for the first time to see me lighting the candlesticks, he stops and stares.
A wave of self consciousness floods me. He must find me ridiculous, my loose sweater slipping off my shoulder and revealing the dainty bra straps beneath it, lighting candles like I’m trying to seduce him.
“I like to romanticize ordinary moments,” I explain, blushing. “Make them feel special. Just makes life a little more fun.”
A slight smile. “You’re good at it. Making life more fun.”
We could make it a lot more fun, I think to myself. Starting with you tossing me on that bed I picked out for you.
I just smile back sweetly.
Tonight for dessert, I make mousse. Dark chocolate espresso, a sprinkle of sea salt, homemade whipped cream on top.
Apparently I’ve resorted to channeling my sexual frustration through obscenely rich desserts.
The French call an orgasm la petite mort, the little death, and this dessert is definitely little death by chocolate.
I’m scraping the last of the mousse from my glass when Slade reaches over and touches the corner of my mouth with his thumb.
“Got some whipped cream there,” he murmurs.
His thumb stays for one second longer than maybe necessary. His gaze drops to my lips as he skims the pad of his thumb over my lower lip.
Then he drops his hand and looks away.
“Thanks,” I say, a little breathless. I pick up my glass of Cabernet and down the rest of it in one swallow.
I’m making his house into my dream home, like I’m going to be living here forever. Arranging romantic dinners by candlelight for the two of us like we’re a real couple. Getting giddy over every brush of his hand, every gesture of simple affection.
It’s so glaringly obvious that I have feelings for him that I’m not sure whether to be grateful or embarrassed that he seems completely, utterly oblivious.
Or maybe he’s not oblivious.
Maybe he just doesn’t feel it back.