Chapter Eight
L ucy looked at the flyer on her refrigerator for the zillionth time that day and considered whether to go to today’s library event talk. She’d skipped last week’s talk because she was afraid Gabriel would be there, and she still wasn’t sure if that was self-preservation or cowardice.
Possibly a bit of both, but mostly cowardice, especially since Gabriel probably didn’t even go. She was pretty sure he was avoiding her, too.
She wasn’t going to sit home today, though. She’d been looking forward to this ever since she picked up the flyer, so she hopped in her car and headed for the library and the Meet Your Local Raptors discussion.
Like nearly every other structure in town, the library looked like a cabin—an expensive modern cabin, with big windows and lots of light.
There was a good crowd and most of the seats were already full, so her only choices were to stand in the back through the entire thing or sit in the front row. She slid into the first row and hoped the speaker wouldn’t call on her.
Hector Diaz, the bookstore owner, took the seat next to her.
“Lucy, nice to see you,” he whispered.
“You, too.”
She could feel an excitement in the room that matched her own. Kids and adults alike were looking around, waiting for the hawks and peregrine falcons and maybe even an eagle if they were lucky. For the first time since she’d arrived in Jeffrey, she felt like she belonged.
It didn’t make any sense to feel more a part of things here than she had in all her time in San Francisco. Maybe it was knowing the man next to her and having him smile at her like he was pleased to see her.
A pretty librarian with a cap of curly dark hair came to the front of the room and gave an introduction, telling them they were in for a real treat. A moment later, the speaker entered through a side door with a hawk on his arm. Everyone started to chatter, and a child somewhere in back shrieked with delight.
Lucy lost herself in the parade of incredible birds the speaker introduced one by one—vulture, osprey, peregrine, and finally an eagle.
At the end the speaker took questions, and then the crowd rose and started filing out.
“What did you think?” Hector asked, walking with her up the aisle.
“I’m thinking I want to incorporate a raptor handler into my next book somehow.”
He laughed. “That would be cool.”
They were in the lower lobby of the building. Some people were leaving, others were standing around in groups of two and three, talking.
Hector called out to the librarian as she crossed the lobby in front of them. “Amelia, hi.”
She smiled and came over. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Things have been busy, but I couldn’t miss this one.”
“Charlie’s always a big hit.”
“Amelia, this is Lucy Pond. She writes gorgeous historical young adult fiction, which she’ll be reading at the store in December. Lucy, Amelia is the library’s director of education.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucy,” Amelia said, smiling. “I look forward to your reading.”
“You’ve got wonderful programming. I’m looking forward to the talk on edible plants.”
“I’ve been wanting to do more programs around writing. I don’t suppose you have any interest in doing a workshop or two for us?”
Hector laughed. “If you’re not careful, Lucy, we’ll keep you so busy, you won’t have time to write that book. I’ll leave you two to talk.”
“What kind of workshop?” Lucy asked.
“I’d love to offer a fiction-writing workshop for teens. I don’t think we have enough programming for that age group, though I’ll admit they’re a hard group to pin down.”
Excitement and doubt rose simultaneously. “I haven’t ever taught before.”
“I don’t want to talk you into something you don’t want to do, but maybe you’ll think about it? You could teach them the kinds of things they don’t always learn in school. Point of view and character arcs, three-act structure, and so on. It would be free for the kids, and we’d pay you an honorarium of two thousand dollars. It’s not what you’re worth, but that’s my budget.”
“I’ve never done anything like that, but I would have loved learning about those topics when I first started writing.”
The hospital had offered writing groups for teenage patients, but that had been more about expressing their feelings than studying craft.
“Most young writers don’t learn the basic tools of fiction until they go to college. They come to the library looking for books to teach them, which is great, but it would be even better to have a person answer questions and read their work.”
“Do you think there are enough teenagers in town who would want that kind of thing?” she asked.
“I do, and I think it would be perfect for them. Living in a tourist town is a strange thing. Wealthy families come and spend money, and these kids wait on them in restaurants and stores, where they buy things locals usually can’t afford. They resent the tourists while at the same time depending on them. Which makes that resentment build.”
“And you think a writing workshop will help?”
“Anything that makes life interesting helps.”
“Okay.” A combination of nerves and excitement had her stomach fluttering. “I’ll give it some thought.”
“Excellent.” Amelia grabbed a flyer off a nearby table and handed it to her. “My contact info is on here.” She saw something across the lobby that had her frowning. “I’d better go deal with that. It was wonderful meeting you.”
Lucy watched her stride across the worn carpet to where a man was gesturing angrily at a younger library employee holding a clipboard. She couldn’t hear what Amelia said, but her new acquaintance didn’t seem remotely cowed when the man turned to her. Amelia wasn’t all that much older than her, but she exuded confidence.
No one would ever describe Lucy that way, but she could work on that, starting with the opportunity she’d been offered.
She left the building with a lighter step, her mind already turning over ideas for how to structure the course. That evening she started putting those ideas together, and by the next night, she had a proposal for a workshop that would meet once a week for six weeks.
Pulling out the flyer Amelia had given her, she sent the proposal before she could second guess herself.
***
G abe woke up Thanksgiving morning and lay there, staring at the ceiling without moving. It was already ten o’clock, but he hadn’t fallen asleep until after two.
A wave of homesickness swept over him before he was fully awake, a deep well of grief and yearning opening in his chest.
All around the country, families were preparing for a ritual that brought people together. But he was flouting it, hurting his whole family and causing them more worry.
He hauled himself out of bed, too agitated to lie there any longer, and looked out the front window.
Lucy was still here.
All week he’d been wondering if she would spend Thanksgiving somewhere else, but her car was still in the driveway. Which didn’t seem right. The last thing anyone deserved was a Thanksgiving alone in the woods with no one but him for company.
Not that he could even be considered company. She seemed to have forgiven him for being a miserable bastard that day in the coffee shop, and all the times before that, but their wild fuck against the wall of his cabin was miles too far across the line.
No matter what she said.
Maybe they’d have been able to sit down to a cordial meal together if that hadn’t happened. But they hadn’t even spoken since the morning after.
Whatever fragile peace they’d managed had been blown apart that night, and he wasn’t sure where they stood now. She didn’t seem angry with him, but he was angry enough for both of them.
Angry, and unable to forget. It was one thing to wonder what her skin felt like or what it would be like to sink into her. It was another thing to know she was soft as silk everywhere—her throat, her wrist, the inside of her thighs.
He hadn’t let himself wonder what kind of sounds she’d make, but now he knew that, too. There was no forgetting any of it, but it couldn’t and wouldn’t happen again.
He moved on autopilot as he stoked the fire and heated water for coffee. His mother would be up now. He pictured her in the kitchen wearing the patchwork apron Natalie made for her during a brief sewing phase.
And here he was, on his own like he wanted. Except what he really wanted was his old life back.
The one with Ricky in it.
He set his mug down hard. He couldn’t think about that.
It was cold out, with a layer of snow on the ground, but it shouldn’t be bad on the trails. Changing into his trail-running gear, he took the time to stretch and warm up, then set off at an easy lope, grateful for the bracing cold.
By the time he came off the trail, his head was clearer, his turmoil stamped out—for the time being. He’d put things back in their boxes and was pretty sure he could keep them there for a little while.
When he came around the corner of his house, Lucy was standing at his door.
“You scared me,” she said, a hand going to her chest. Her gaze flew to his legs and then quickly back up again.
He hid a grin. He’d caught her doing that a couple of times before, and it was pretty damn gratifying.
“What’s up?” he asked, heading inside.
She hesitated, then followed him in. “I started cooking a Thanksgiving dinner, and it’s so depressing to do it for myself, so I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner with me. You’ll probably say something that makes me crazy, but at least I won’t be depressed.”
His relief was so acute, he scowled down at her. “I won’t be very good company.”
“I already know that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But it turns out making a whole Thanksgiving meal to eat with only Hilde for company isn’t as charming and empowering as I thought it would be.”
“Okay.”
“Really?”
“I don’t have anything against Thanksgiving. I just couldn’t deal with seeing my family this year.”
She clapped her hands and smiled like a little kid. “Excellent. I planned on eating at about two o’clock.”
“I’ll help. What are you making?”
She was no more surprised than he was. Ten minutes ago, all he wanted was to be alone.
“Cornish game hens, green bean casserole, salad, sweet potatoes, and pecan pie.”
“You were going to eat all that by yourself?”
She shrugged. “It sounded good in my head.”
He thought of her in the kitchen, gamely cooking and trying to convince herself it would be great even as she got lonelier and lonelier. So lonely she resorted to coming to him. He was really going to try not to piss her off today.
“I’ll be over in twenty minutes.”
He was smiling as he shut the door behind her, and he didn’t stop smiling as he stripped off his clothes and headed for the shower. He dried his hair quickly and pulled on a pair of dark brown cords, then stood in front of his closet debating what to wear. Really, there wasn’t much choice since he hadn’t brought anything dressy, so he settled on a base layer and one of his nicer flannel shirts. Then he headed into his spartan kitchen and scanned the shelves and fridge for something he could bring.
There wasn’t much. Lately, he shopped to keep himself fueled and functioning. A jar of peanut butter wasn’t going to cut it, and she probably wouldn’t be too impressed with pasta or ground beef. The salsa and bag of chips would pass muster as an appetizer, though, and he had an unopened bottle of whiskey. It was possible she hated the stuff, but it was an offering, at least.
Throwing everything into a shopping bag, he stoked the fire so it would last through the day and headed out the door. His anticipation was alarmingly close to what he dimly remembered experiencing before a first date.
Which was absurd, since she’d come to him out of desperation. But she had looked pleased when he accepted her invitation.
Really pleased. And she liked his legs.
He was grinning again but managed to suppress it as he neared her door.
Hilde barked at his knock, and then Lucy was opening the door for him and waving him in. Her hair was twisted up in the back and held with a big barrette, revealing her long neck. She’d tied a checked apron over her jeans and sweater and looked faintly panicked.
“We might be eating later than I originally planned. Everything’s taking longer than I thought it would.”
He toed off his boots and followed her into the kitchen. “No problem. Here, I brought a few things. Don’t feel bad if you don’t want any of them.” He pulled his meager offerings out of the bag and set them on the counter.
“Oh, excellent,” she said. “I didn’t get any snacks, and I’m already starving.” She opened a couple of cabinets until she found a small glass bowl. “You can put the salsa in this,” she said, setting it on the table.
She eyed the bottle of whiskey like she was remembering him drunk on the stuff.
The thought of her worrying about what he’d do was like a knife in his gut. “I’m not in the habit of getting drunk. I won’t even have any.”
“I hope you will. I don’t want to drink alone.”
She searched the cabinets and came back with two tumblers. “Will these do?”
“Anything that carries it to our mouths will do fine,” he said, pouring a finger into each glass.
She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t smell like something I’d like, but I’ll try anything once.”
“Is that right?”
“Well, no. But it sounded good.” She sniffed it again, her delicate nose twitching over the glass. “I’ve always thought it would be cool to throw back a whiskey.”
“Well, take it easy this first time.” He took a sip of his own glass and found himself closing his eyes as the warmth slid down his throat. When he opened them again, she was looking at him, and the sudden heat in her eyes sparked an answering flare in him.
Then she looked down into her own glass, squared her shoulders, and brought the tumbler to her lips. Her lashes fluttered down and her throat worked right before she gave a couple of short coughs, her face flushing.
“It’s funny. I don’t like how it tastes, but I like how it feels. ”
Mother of God, why was that so sexy?
She took another sip, this one a little less cautious, licking her lips at the end.
He had the sudden urge to pick her up, sit her on the counter, and kiss her until she tasted nothing but him.
He walked to the window, looking out without seeing anything. Drawing his breath in, he let it out slowly as he silently did multiplication tables. He had to stop thinking this way. He could not get hard in Lucy’s kitchen.
Behind him, she was opening cabinets and drawers.
“What can I help with?” he asked, finally turning around.
“Well, I’ve never actually cooked Cornish game hens, so if you want to deal with those...”
“Do you have a recipe you want me to follow?”
She pulled a printed recipe toward them. “I was going to use this, but you don’t have to.”
“This works. I’ll do the stuffing, too, if that sounds okay.”
“That would be amazing.”
She tuned the radio to the local station, and the sounds of Miles Davis accompanied their chopping and mixing. Hilde nosed around them, getting underfoot until Lucy told her to go to bed. Head low, the dog obeyed and was soon snoring gently by the woodstove.
Len was a great cook and had a well-stocked kitchen for family get-togethers, so Gabe had a lot to work with. He melted some butter and basted the birds, then crushed some dried sage together with kosher salt and put it under the skin. Lucy had bought a stuffing mix, and he doctored it with pecans, dried cranberries, onions, sage, parsley, and thyme, and stuffed it into the hens.
“You don’t need a recipe for that?” she asked, looking over from the other side of the counter.
“I’ve made stuffing every which way. I’m on turkey duty every year.”
She’d probably never believe that he used to cook for people every holiday, and some made-up ones, besides. Big cookouts in the back yard, him on the grill taking orders. And it wasn’t only hot dogs and burgers. He’d served steaks and mahi mahi, rack of lamb and shrimp skewers, pizza from his wood-fired oven. He had a badminton net and horseshoes and a basketball hoop in the driveway for guests and their kids.
He couldn’t imagine ever being that guy again.
“So you know how to cook.”
“I like learning recipes and trying new things,” he said. “Creating something from nothing.”
“Something from nothing. I like that.”
“You do the same.”
“My cooking isn’t all that terrific.”
He laughed. “Your cooking’s great, but I meant your writing.”
“Why did you stop?”
Part of him wanted to tell her. Maybe it would be a relief. But he couldn’t do it. She didn’t know what she was asking, anyway. She thought she was making small talk.
“Fell out of the habit,” he said instead.
“Maybe you’ll get back into it after tonight.” Her smile was mischievous, a challenge.
“Hoping I’ll start feeding you like this on a regular basis?”
“I wouldn’t complain.”
All his girlfriends had loved that he cooked. They used to brag about it to their friends. He used to cook for Angie and her friends while they drank margaritas and complained about the dating scene.
Lucy stood by his shoulder as he finished tying the hens’ legs with the twine he’d found in a drawer.
“Those are beautiful. I knew I invited you for a reason.”
“It wasn’t for my sparkling conversation.”
She laughed. “You have your moments.”
He washed his hands and looked around for something else to do. Lucy was placing marshmallows on top of sweet potato casserole.
“I always wished my mother would make that,” he told her. “She said marshmallows belonged in dessert.”
“In other words, I’m fulfilling your heart’s desire?” she joked.
She was being lighthearted, and he should have laughed. But all he could think was yes . He hadn’t hoped for this when he woke up this morning, but her easy presence and husky laugh, her soft eyes and slow smile eased something in him.
He felt human again.
Whatever she saw in his expression seemed to surprise her. She looked down as hot color rushed into her cheeks.
“Anything else I can help with?” he asked.
Her eyes flew back up to meet his. “Oh. Um, I don’t think so. I made the pecan pie earlier, and the green bean casserole doesn’t take any time. I guess you could make the salad.”
Nodding, he pulled a head of lettuce and some veggies out of the fridge. “Did your family try to get you home for the holiday?” he asked, tearing leaves into a big wooden bowl.
She pulled out a casserole dish and emptied two cans of green beans into it.
“Yes, and I was tempted, which is why I stayed here.”
“Why would it be a bad thing?”
She opened the can of cream of mushroom soup like it required all her attention. “I don’t have a place to stay after this. Which really isn’t that big a deal, since I have plenty of time to look, except I know my parents will try to convince me to move back. And by convince, I mean shower me with attention and my favorite foods and generally remind me how easy life would be if I were there.”
“And that would be bad because...?”
She didn’t answer right away. She finished the casserole and set it on the counter, then pulled out forks and knives and started setting the table. Her back was to him, but he could see the tension in her shoulders and in the way she fussed with the exact position of the knives.
“Never mind, you don’t have to tell me,” he said. “Hell, I don’t tell you anything.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She nodded toward the whiskey by his elbow. “Could you pour me some more?”
“Like that, is it?” he said, pouring a generous refill and passing the glass back to her.
She took a couple of sips, closing her eyes as she swallowed. He could see the liquid travel down her throat—nearly felt it himself, he was paying such close attention.
“I was diagnosed with leukemia at fifteen,” she finally said, looking down at the glass in her hands. “I went through treatments for four years, and for a few years after that, I still wasn’t myself. It completely disrupted my life. I didn’t move out until I was twenty-four, so being back again would feel like going backwards. Like I’d failed.”
“Jesus, I can’t even imagine that. You must have been terrified.”
“It’s a strange thing to face your mortality when you’re so young. The survival rate for what I had—acute lymphoblastic leukemia—is really good for younger kids, but it’s not so terrific for teenagers.” She took another sip. “So yeah, I was scared, but also really sick for a long time. My mom quit her job to take care of me, and I had to be homeschooled. I missed most of high school, and I was exhausted for years, not to mention the brain fog the chemo left me with. I didn’t start college until I was twenty-one, and even then I couldn’t handle more than a couple classes at a time.”
“Is it...do you worry about it coming back?” he asked, holding his breath for her answer.
“I’m considered cured, and ALL is a childhood disease. But the treatments can cause problems down the road. Heart issues, things like that.”
“I can’t imagine what you went through,” he said. He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t even name what he felt. He’d made so many judgements about her without knowing anything.
“They were hard years, and not just for me. My family was pretty traumatized, and they did things for me to make my life easier, and because it was the only way they could help sometimes. It was hard on them when I moved away, even though I was healthy. Now that Mark and I are over, I think they’re hoping I’ll come back. But I need to start fending for myself, so I’m actually glad that you don’t want to babysit me.”
Everything he’d said had seemed reasonable at the time. Now he saw how cruel he’d been. She was up here on her own, trying to make it work so she didn’t have to go home, and all he’d done was point out the ways she was failing.
How did she even stand him?
The oven buzzed that it was up to temperature, and they both jumped. He slid the hens in and set the timer.
“Why don’t we sit,” he said, nodding toward the big living area on the other side of the woodstove. “The other food doesn’t need to go in for a while.”
She curled up on the sofa and pulled a throw blanket over her. “So now you know all about me.”
“Not even close,” he said, his voice lower and rougher than he’d intended.
She gave him a look. “I’ve completely spilled my guts here. You could at least tell me one thing about yourself.”
“Such as?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I don’t know. What’s your favorite book?”
Some of the tension eased out of him. “It’s hard to pick one.” He thought for a minute. He’d read very little since Ricky died, but he had a bookcase at home with all his favorites. He could see them lined up there, waiting.
“I like Anne Cleeves and Walter Mosley mysteries, and I’ll read pretty much anything by Stephen King or Junot Diaz. Jon Krakauer and Bill Bryson write great nonfiction.” He laughed. “My sister always gets me David Sedaris books for Christmas when there’s a new one. Have you read him?”
“A few of his stories, but I don’t have any of his books.” She studied him, as if trying to figure him out. “You used to be different, didn’t you?”
For several long seconds, all he could do was stare at her. Then he set his glass carefully on the table and stood up. “I’ll go check on the food.”
“Wait. I’m sorry, Gabriel. I didn’t mean...”
But he brushed past her without slowing down and made for the bathroom on the other side of the cabin. Closing the door, he braced his hands on the sink and hung his head.
He closed his eyes and breathed in for a count of four and out for the same. He repeated those breaths until his heart rate eased and his head cleared. He splashed water on his face and dried off, his movements slow and deliberate.
He needed to go. He’d make up an excuse, and she’d accept it, or pretend to. She couldn’t make him stay.
Except how could he walk out after everything she’d told him? She’d bared her most painful experiences, and he’d walked away from her. Leaving would be unforgivable. Never mind that she’d invited him here because she didn’t want to be alone.
That day in the coffee shop, she’d said it would be easier if he was always a jerk instead of fooling her by being nice some of the time.
He knew people who were like that. Had even dated a couple. Things would be going along fine, and then they’d snap or get moody out of nowhere. Sometimes he had an idea where it was coming from—a parent who’d recently died, a shitty boss—but it didn’t make it any better. And here was Lucy, with no clue why he acted the way he did.
Being around him must really suck.
It wasn’t fair to her, and it would be even worse to ruin today for her. He needed to get a grip.
He took a few more deep breaths and headed back to the kitchen.
She came toward him and put a hand on his arm. “Please don’t go. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
“It’s okay. I was just surprised.” He looked down at her hand on his arm and swallowed the lump in his throat. “You weren’t wrong.”
Part of him still wanted to take off, but he also knew what waited for him back in his own cabin. It didn’t hold a candle to Lucy’s soft smile.
“You could use some more wood in here,” he said.
“You don’t need to do that. I’ve got plenty for the night.”
“It’ll only take a minute to bring in more.”
He thought he was going to get an argument, but he could see the moment she realized he needed to do it.
“That would be great.”
***
L ucy made herself wait in the living room while Gabriel went in and out. After one trip, he’d filled the crate by the woodstove. Two trips later, he was making pyramids of logs she wouldn’t need to burn for days. But she recognized the nervous energy, and it was her fault he needed to burn it off.
She hadn’t planned on asking him that question, but she’d suddenly glimpsed the man he’d been. And it wasn’t the first time. It broke through in a kindness or an expression, the mention of cooking for others, and the way he sometimes relaxed and had easy conversation.
But she’d invited him to her home—however temporarily she could lay claim to it—and she needed to put him at ease. There were lots of board games on a shelf in one of the closets. She could pull out Scrabble, or maybe Trivial Pursuit? That was what her family always did on holidays. By evening, they were usually sleepy and had moved on to a movie.
A movie.
That was perfect. It required no talking or looking at each other.
Kneeling on the floor, she opened the cabinet under the TV and scanned the titles for something she wanted to see and a man like Gabriel might enjoy. It helped to know his favorite books. After agonizing for several minutes, she ended up with Doctor Strangelove, Double Indemnity, Alien, and Casino Royale.
Gabriel stacked a final armful of wood and then looked around like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.
“I thought we could watch a movie,” she said.
A moment’s hesitation, and then he crouched beside her, the scents of cold mountain air, cut wood, and dried sage wafting off of him. The man was delicious and abrasive, sensitive and obnoxious, and, most of all, he was hurting.
The least she could do was give them both a break from the world.
He examined the movies she’d pulled out. “These are all great. Which one do you want to watch?”
“You pick. I haven’t seen any of them.”
“I vote for James Bond. If we want another one, we could watch Alien .”
“That one’s scary, right?”
“Yeah, but not the kind of scary that lasts after you watch it. Unless maybe you happen to be traveling in outer space.”
“Okay, then. Want to start James Bond now, and we can watch while we eat? There are a couple of snack tables in the closet.”
Her mother would be horrified at the idea of Thanksgiving dinner eaten in front of the TV, but it solved the problem of tense and awkward conversation. They were both trying to get through the day the best they could.
He looked relieved at the suggestion. “That’s perfect. The hens must be close to done now. I’ll put the other dishes in.”
He seemed to have full command of what to do with the food, so she left him to it and set the snack tables up in front of the sofa, which faced the TV. It wasn’t quite two o’clock, but the sky had clouded over, darkening the cabin. It would probably snow, but that made it cozier inside.
She stuck the movie in and sat back down, pulling the blanket over her lap. Gabriel took a seat, and she pressed play.
It was the perfect movie, meaningless and engrossing, and she slipped right into movie-watching mode. But the awareness of Gabriel, only a foot away, never left her. He was so big, so present , even when he said nothing. He wasn’t unlike Daniel Craig’s James Bond—big, broody, charismatic, physically capable, and gorgeous.
As far as she knew, he wasn’t a spy, but then she knew almost nothing about him.
He relaxed into the cushions, clearly enjoying the movie. His arms were huge, his thighs massive. She could crawl right on top of him and he’d barely feel it.
He glanced over and caught her looking.
They both went utterly still. His gaze heated and dropped to her mouth, lingered, then met her eyes again. She sensed rather than heard him release a long breath.
Was she even breathing?
The buzz of the oven timer made them both jump. She leapt up, the blanket falling to the floor. “I’ll get it.”
Nerves jangling, she practically ran for the kitchen. She heard the movie stop, then the vibration of his footsteps as he neared. She busied herself pulling all the food out of the oven and placing it on the countertops. The homey, comforting smells of sweet potatoes and green bean casserole calmed her nerves.
She was being ridiculous. They weren’t teenagers, and they weren’t going to make out on the couch while watching a movie. What was wrong with her?
“Smells delicious,” Gabriel said, his voice low and gravelly behind her.
The man was so big he had his own gravitational pull.
She turned and smiled brightly. “The hens look amazing. Let’s serve ourselves.”
Gabriel poured them each a glass of the white wine she’d taken out, and she promised herself to only have one glass. More than that and she might forget what a mess the two of them made together.
They piled their plates up and headed back into the living room. It took a minute to get settled, but once they were each behind a snack table, she relaxed. What could be less sexy than Thanksgiving dinner eaten like old men? They were definitely out of the woods.
“Ready?” she asked, then pressed play at his nod.
She tried each of the side dishes first to make sure she hadn’t accidentally poisoned Gabriel, but they tasted exactly as they were meant to. Then she cut into the succulent little stuffed hen.
She didn’t mean to make a noise, it just happened when the flavors hit her tongue.
“That good, huh?”
He looked amused, but also a little turned on. Like the time she moaned over her hot chocolate at the coffee shop. He wasn’t immune to her, but he wasn’t going to act on it, either.
She nodded. “It really is.”
His smile was slow and devastating. “Good.”
She had to remind herself not to stare, and then his attention turned back to his own plate.
“Your sweet potato casserole is amazing,” he said. “I wish my mother had listened to me when I begged her.”
“Uh, thank you.”
She made sure not to make any more noises, and they watched the rest of the movie without incident, pausing it once to get second helpings and a second time to clear their dishes and preheat the oven for the pie. By the time the credits rolled, it was dark outside. Getting up, she turned on some lights, put the pie in the oven, then called Hilde to do her business and went outside with her.
When she came back in, Gabriel was washing the pans.
“Don’t do that. I’ll get those later.”
“This is nothing. I used to have to clean up after meals with twenty people.”
“It must be nice to have such a big family.”
“It’s great most of the time. This year I wasn’t up to seeing everyone. But it’s not all family. My parents invite neighbors and friends. Sometimes people they barely know if they have nowhere to go for the holiday.”
This was the most he’d said about his family. Every word he spoke seemed like an inadvertently dropped clue. She was dying to ask what made him come up here, but she’d done enough pushing for one day.
The pie was ready. She pulled it out and set it on the counter, her mouth already watering. She pulled a mixing bowl from one of the lower cabinets, then went on a hunt for a hand mixer.
“Is that for what I think it is?” Gabriel asked.
“If you think it’s for whipped cream, then you’re right. I couldn’t have pie without it.”
It was slightly embarrassing that she’d pulled out all the stops like this when she’d been planning to eat alone. Then again, hadn’t a small part of her been thinking she’d invite him over, at least for dessert?
“Should I make coffee?” he asked.
“Decaf would be great.”
Pulling the heavy cream out of the fridge, she went to work. In no time, the cream frothed and then turned into stiff peaks. She grabbed a couple of small plates, sliced a generous piece of pie for each of them, and ladled a generous dollop of cream on top.
“That looks incredible,” he said, picking up a fork.
“Wait, I almost forgot.”
She went to the freezer and came back with vanilla ice cream. “We can’t have it without this.”
He looked at her in amazement, shaking his head. “You’re something else, you know that?”
It was embarrassing how much she enjoyed giving him pleasure. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be thinking about more ways to make him happy.
Gabriel poured them each a cup of coffee, and they carried their plates to the couch. She put in the Alien DVD and hit play.
She tried not to think about how natural if felt to do this, like it was something they did every day. Considering how poorly most of their interactions went, it was surprisingly easy. Maybe if they could both get out of their own way, it would happen more often.
Except that was a terrible idea if she was going to learn to be on her own. The man took care of everything when he was around.
But she’d made an amazing pie. She took another bite, making sure to get the decadent pecan filling, crust, whipped cream, and ice cream all on her fork. She closed her eyes as the different textures and temperatures mixed and melted in her mouth. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her.
There was no mistaking the naked desire in his heated gaze. He held himself rigid even as he heaved out a long breath.
He could have her under him in seconds. She could almost feel his weight on top of her, his mouth on hers.
Or she could crawl into his lap and take control. If he let her.
He broke eye contact, looking down at his plate as if not sure what to do with it.
“This is really delicious,” he finally said.
“Thank you.” Her voice was high and breathless, a total giveaway.
She turned back to the movie and pretended to concentrate while her heart pounded in her ears. He wasn’t going to kiss her, but he’d wanted to.
Their companionable silence didn’t return. Instead, each second that ticked by increased the tension until she was strung tight as a bow.
She nearly spilled her coffee when he finally spoke.
“I should probably get going. I’m more tired than I realized. Rain check on the movie?” he asked, standing up with his plate and mug.
“Sure. No problem.”
He headed toward the kitchen, but she sat a bit longer to regain her composure.
It was for the best. Their chemistry was off the charts, but the last thing she needed was that kind of complication. He had an ocean of pain in him, deep enough to drown in. What’s more, he knew it.
He was running the water like he was going to clean up.
“Leave those,” she said, finally getting up. “I can throw it all in the dishwasher.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
“Well, thanks for everything. It was...it was exactly what I needed.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, smiling. “Let me give you some leftovers to take with you.”
“I won’t say no to that.”
She pulled out some plastic containers, and they divvied up the dishes.
He pulled on his coat and picked up the containers. “Good night, Lucy.”
“Good night, Gabriel.”
Hildegard rose lazily from her bed and followed him into the mudroom, but Lucy stayed where she was and listened to him leave.
They’d breached a divide tonight, even if he hadn’t told her why he was so unhappy. Now all they needed to do was maintain their equilibrium.
Which was totally possible if they avoided drinking whiskey and watching movies together. In fact, they’d be better off if they only saw each other outside in the cold, wearing many layers of clothing.
That could totally work.
?