12
Rayne
Closer
I couldn’t recall the last time I’d prepared a meal for someone other than myself. I was certainly no chef—that was why the kitchen team always prepared the meals, despite the expense to employ them. As much as I wanted to do it all, I wasn’t about to inflict my cooking on a guest.
But considering I’d nearly sliced open Salem’s jugular, I figured the least I could do was feed her.
The big industrial kitchen was quiet, other than the sound of my knife on the cutting board.
Salem had insisted she could tend to her injury herself, laughing away my concern over it, so she had gone upstairs for now.
She had been so eager to explore the square; the fact that she’d left so quickly made me certain something had happened.
Who the hell had talked to her?
When Salem eventually poked her head into the kitchen, I waved her over to join me.
“You look cozy,” I said as she walked in wearing what I could only describe as a red fox onesie, complete with a fluffy tail and eared hood.
“I think I’ve had enough excitement for one day,” she said, taking a seat on the shining metal cabinets beside me.
“This is my chill time costume.” My eyes immediately fell to her throat, and the very obvious bandage pasted there.
She hurriedly covered it with her hand. “Stop worrying about me, silly! I’m fine . ”
Part of me wanted to tell her I was sorry again. The other part cringed at the uselessness of apologies. Empty words fixed nothing, so I ducked my head down and kept chopping and mixing until I’d assembled a passable bruschetta.
“What did you think of Marihope?” I said after she’d stuffed her mouth with some topped toasted bread and did a little dance of pleasure. I wasn’t any good at small talk. It bored me and took too long. I would have far rather gone straight to the point: Who had sent her running from the square?
“It’s beautiful,” she said, leaning back on her palms and swinging her legs. “Really quiet. I guess it was even quieter than I expected.”
“It’s a small community.” I avoided the typical “tight-knit” phrase that so many others liked to use. Our community was small, but knitted it was not. More like tangled. “Did you meet the pastor?”
She frowned. Perhaps my question was a bit too direct. “I didn’t. He’s... your uncle, right?”
Ah. Someone had indeed spoken to her.
“Yeah. Gerard. He took over at the church after my father passed.”
Any time my tongue had to form that word— father —it felt bitter in my mouth. But I cleared my throat and said, “Given how morbid people around here can be, I’m guessing someone already told you about my dad, right?”
She frowned deeper, and I realized that came out way more intense than I meant it. The endless mill of gossip had ground down my last nerve, but it wasn’t Salem’s fault.
“I saw his grave,” she said softly. “I’m really sorry, Rayne.”
“Please don’t be.” I stuffed my mouth with bruschetta—too much. I couldn’t get a single word out as I chewed.
“Did he—I mean, God, it’s so awful, did he really die in that church?” She lowered her voice to ask me, as if the house would be offended to hear her talk about it. “Did someone really—”
“He died in the church, on a Sunday in the middle of January. There was so much fucking snow, no one found him until it was time for the next service. A woman named Ruth found him.”
“She did? Wow, she didn’t mention that...”
I tried not to groan, I really did, but it came out anyway. “Ah, hell, no wonder you ran out of there. Ruth was talking to you?”
She awkwardly rubbed the back of her neck. “Yeah. She’s a little... well, she’s...”
“A bitch.” I finished for her. “You can say it. Trust me, I know. I had to go to school with her.”
She laughed. “She really doesn’t seem to like you very much.”
“Nope, she does not.” Not anymore.
I wasn’t sure how to talk about this; I never had, not at any length. But nothing about this situation was familiar to me. I never spent time with guests; I avoided them. People came here for the house and the land, not for me.
But something about Salem made my tongue feel loose. The more I was around her, the more I babbled and didn’t know how to stop.
“My dad died when I was a teenager,” I said. “Left me the house and a little money. I haven’t missed him. Never have and never will. We weren’t close. It wasn’t sad. We don’t know how he died.”
She raised her eyebrows at that, and I guessed she’d already been told differently.
“Like I said, there was a bad storm. Animals got into the church and tore up the body. It’s gross, but that’s just what happens.
” I talked better when I was moving, so I started assembling my best attempt at a dessert.
It also enabled me to avoid looking at her, and I frankly couldn’t look her in the eyes when I was lying.
“Personally, I think he killed himself. He wasn’t well. Hadn’t been for a long time.”
At least the last part was true.
“I’m sorry to bring it up,” she said, but I quickly shook my head.
“Don’t be, seriously. It beats talking about the weather.”
Taking a glass down from the cabinet, I layered fresh berries, a few slices of pound cake, and whipped cream together.
“Do you always make dessert with lunch?” she said. Her grin told me she knew the answer, well aware I was showing off.
“When I have the time.” I wiped a bit of cream from the side of the bowl and slid it over to her. I was pretty damn proud of coming up with it on the spot. It was a simple parfait, but the way her eyes lit up and she pulled her phone out to take a photo felt like winning an award.
She took a bite, and her face melted with bliss. “Oh my God. That is so good. These berries are so sweet.”
“They grow at the edge of the property,” I said. “I make jam with them too. I’ll send you home with some.”
She took another excited bite before she realized I wasn’t eating. “You’re not having one?”
We were out of whipped cream until I could defrost more, but I just shrugged. “I’m too full. Couldn’t handle another bite.”
“Are you sure?” She held up the spoon. Dollops of cream sandwiched soft, fluffy cake, stained purple from plump berries. Delicious, obviously, but offered from her hand? Ambrosia.
Sitting down on the stool across from her, I let her feed it to me. The berries burst on my tongue, cream smudged on my mouth.
She stared at it. My tongue licked it away, and her pupils swelled.
When her gaze dropped and she took another bite, I was watching too intently. Her lips closed around the spoon, stroking the silver clean but leaving cream on her lip.
I was too close. Staring too hard. Wanting too much.
Obediently, when she offered me another bite, I ate. This time, she wiped my lip clean with her thumb, then lingered with it by my mouth. Turning my head, I closed my lips around her. Stroking my tongue over the pad of her finger, I watched her face. Sweet cream and vanilla melted in my mouth.
Her breath hitched, and I took her finger a little deeper into my mouth. I wanted to see her eyes flutter shut in ecstasy, her chest rise and fall with gasps of pleasure. I teased her with my tongue, held eye contact, and slowly released her finger from my mouth.
She looked like a dream, staring at me with those wide, wanting eyes.
No one had ever looked at me like that. Like a little explorer peering into the dark cavern of my soul, her light shining inside and terrifying everything that hid in the dark.
I wanted to guide her in. Show her the safe places in my shadows. Shelter her behind my walls.
But...
She wasn’t mine. She never would be. To want her to be, to desire her to stay, was so selfish I should have been ashamed.
I wasn’t. I was greedily, ravenously fixated.
“Rayne...” She trailed off, and my heart sped up. I knew what she wanted. Damn it, I did too. She would taste sweet and soft, like the last remnants of summer. She would feel warm, and shake under my touch.
But I’d already gone too far, hadn’t I?
I stood up, even though the disappointment on her face shattered me.
“I need to get back to work,” I said. “Take as long as you want; I’ll clean up later.”
“Oh—okay.” She didn’t even have a chance to get more than a few words out. I hated myself for it. Hated walking away and leaving her there, with so many words still tangled in my throat.