Chapter 13
Caviar on Tuesdays
MITCHELL
My limbs were stiff as I strode around the corner.
Something else was stiff, too, and that was a fucking problem.
I adjusted my idiot, aching cock in my pants as I headed for the laundry room, which was tucked around the back of the kitchen.
I stopped in front of the machines, trying to control my breathing, crushing the clothes between both palms like that could force the out-of-hand feelings from me.
I had fucked up. Hugely. Because now I knew for certain that this wasn’t just about my dick.
When I saw Winona nearly fall on the stairs, I felt a fear that went beyond the instinct to prevent injury.
I’d caught her with panic lurching up my chest. I hadn’t let go, not for her sake, but for mine.
Then it had absolutely become a dick issue.
Bad, Mitchell. That was very bad.
But fuck, touching her had felt so fucking good. Ludicrously good.
And all things considered, I’d barely touched her. What would it be like to touch more?
But I wouldn’t. Not when she didn’t want it. Not when I couldn’t give her anything but misery.
I pressed a hand to the wall, taking a single long breath to slow my still stuttering pulse.
How had this need grown so intense over only hours?
On the stairs, even before I’d caught her, my want for her was so desperate, I’d felt ill.
She’d looked so perfect; so innocent in her careful steps, but so fucking sexy with her pants hitched up tight against those strong thighs.
When I first stopped her from falling, I’d nearly let her go simply so she’d have to land on me.
So I could feel the delicious pressure of her in my arms, where I think my body thought she belonged.
I think I wanted to hold her that way so I could pretend, for the briefest moment, that she was mine.
I wanted to consume her. To keep her here and never let her go.
I ran my tongue along my teeth, certain I’d find fangs.
“Let me guess,” Winona said, startling me. “You don’t know how to work these.”
I dropped my hand and straightened, but didn’t turn around. If her presence behind me was making gooseflesh erupt across the back of my neck, what would my face show?
By her crisp and sarcastic tone, she was clearly not affected the way I was by what had just happened.
I’d never, ever, acted only on my own attraction. It was another hard line. One I wouldn’t budge on, no matter the circumstances.
I was grateful for the surge of annoyance that sparked through me when her words registered. They tamed at least the most lethal edges of my nerves.
“I can figure it out,” I snapped.
I hadn’t done my own laundry in probably close to a decade.
But I’d constructed whole software systems. I could absolutely figure it out.
I pressed a button on the one on the left.
The washer, presumably, if things moved in order from left to right, though the machines looked exactly the same.
It dinged to life. But there were no labels on the touch display, just an array of symbols, none of which made any sense.
Sprinkles in a bowl. A concentric circle.
I yanked the door open, throwing the clothes in before realizing I was only supposed to dry them.
“Fuck.” I pulled them back out, hearing the softest snicker of laughter behind me.
“I’m glad you’re having fun,” I said.
“I’d pop some corn if I could.” Winona’s voice was chirpy with mirth.
I didn’t like how unraveled her happiness made me feel. But she reminded me she hadn’t eaten.
Luckily, this one had a button that simply said, “start”. After powering it on, I jabbed my finger on that button and held my breath. Miraculously, the barrel inside made a soft starting-up whirr as it began a slow rotation.
I turned around, victorious, realizing too late that this display of immense privilege was nothing to be proud of.
“Washing my own clothes is inefficient,” I said defensively.
That made it infinitely worse. The smirk on Winona’s face grew, her head nodding. “Of course. Efficiency first.”
I was tempted to cross the space and wrap my hands around her hips once more, this time to sit her up on the counter on the other side of the room.
I could do that quite expertly. Or I could just lift her out of my way.
But I didn’t trust myself to touch her a second time. Plus, she might knock me out.
I’d probably like that, too.
“I’ll get you some food,” I grumbled, to save me from embarrassing myself further.
Winona followed me out of the room. “Do you have any food?” There was a sing-song lilt to her voice. She sounded happy. “Or are you going to go outside and take down a deer?”
This was worse. Much worse. I was excited by her being pissed off. But turns out I fucking loved her happy.
Still, the last thing I needed to do was show her that. I flung her a look over my shoulder as I reached the kitchen. “Is it fun? Being irritating?”
“More fun than failing at basic adult functions, I assume.”
I placed my hands on the top of the kitchen island to keep them from doing anything stupid. “I can do things.”
“Mmhmm.” That mmhmm was very close to a Sure, buddy. But there was a smile on those pretty pink lips. I felt a sudden deep gratitude for my incompetence.
Another beat passed. “I miss it,” I said, without thinking.
Her smile faltered, just a little. “Miss what?”
“Not being able to wipe my own ass without someone offering to do it for me.”
Winona wrinkled her nose. “Ew.”
I couldn’t help it, I let out a short laugh.
She tilted her head. “So you do know how to do that.”
I narrowed my eyes, swiveling for the fridge. I pulled the doors open, leaning on them. “I wipe my own ass,” I grumbled. “For the record.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
My lips threatened to turn up. I made myself focus on the task at hand.
There was way too much food in here. Sal had someone come by on Sundays to stock up.
And yes, to do my laundry. I had no idea what to pull out.
I didn’t know what she liked. I could ask, but I doubted she’d give me a straight answer at this point.
I knew there were little pita chips in the cupboard, so I grabbed several jars of condiment and dip-looking things.
As I set everything on the table, finishing by opening the chips and emptying them into a bowl, Winona slid onto one of the barstools on the end of the island.
I leaned back against the counter, keeping the corner of the island between us.
Winona didn’t move for the food. She just watched me like she wasn’t sure what I was going to do next.
I guess she didn’t. Hell, I didn’t.
Finally, she looked at the jars in front of her.
“You said you hadn’t eaten dinner,” I explained.
“This isn’t dinner.”
“It is for me.”
She lifted a brow.
“Sometimes,” I said.
“And the rest of the time?”
I glowered at her, sensing that beer or whiskey wouldn’t make me look very good. “You’re sure you don’t have kids?”
Something flashed on her face, but it was gone a moment later. “I told you I’m not a mother.”
But there was something there.
“You look after someone,” I said. I thought of someone I knew, tucked in a home back in Seattle, a place my brothers wouldn’t allow me to fund solo. Guilt splashed through me as it did more and more lately, for being so far away.
Winona’s jaw flickered. Now she was the irritated one. “I’m not here to give you my life story, Mr. Harrington.”
“Mitchell.”
“When I feel like it, I’ll call you Mitchell.”
I frowned to keep the smirk off my face. Then I leaned over, pushing a jar toward her. “I’m right,” I said. “But I won’t ask you to talk about it.”
“I could ask you about your family, you know.”
It was a statement. She didn’t ask. But I told her anyway. I’d tell her anything she wanted to know. “I’ve got two older brothers. You know one of them. They’re both much better people than I am.”
Her eyes softened. Pity, I think. “Parents?” she asked.
My jaw clenched involuntarily.
When I met Winona’s eyes again, I felt a painful stabbing sensation in my chest.
“Never mind,” she said. “None of my business.” Winona grabbed the jar I’d shoved at her, inspecting the label. “Caviar. Of course.”
Fuck. I should have read the labels. I returned to the opposite counter, folding my arms like I didn’t care I’d set yet another obnoxious display of wealth in front of her. “Do you like it?” I was careful not to be so condescending as to ask if she’d ever had it.
Her expression shifted, tightening just a little. Distaste, but not for the food. “It’s fine,” she said. “Spoon?”
I pulled out a drawer, setting a handful of them on the counter with a clink, carefully keeping my distance. She placed her hand on top of the jar, attempting to twist off the top, but it didn’t immediately give.
“Want some help?”
“No, I don’t want help,” she bit out. She smacked the edge of the metal lid on the counter until a soft pop sounded. The jar opened with ease. Winona picked up one of the spoons like this was no big deal.
But with that little move, I’d seen so much.
I was mesmerized by her self-sufficiency.
She’d clearly been fending for herself for a long time.
But that was chased by an irrational spike of anger at whoever it was that gave her that haunted look.
At whoever had chased her away. Or maybe she’d never needed help opening jars.
Who was he? I wanted to ask again. What did he do?
Instead, I asked, “Do you have siblings?” Safer territory. And she’d only be reciprocating.
Winona dipped a spoon in the jar. “I have two younger brothers. Twins.”
“Parents?”
“Both gone. Is this what you normally eat for dinner?”
A strange ache squeezed at my chest. My family situation may be fucked up, but I hadn’t lost both parents. I had so many questions, but she wasn’t going to give me more. Not now.
“Caviar’s on Tuesdays,” I said. “Right after lobster. But I’m making an exception for you.”