Chapter Seven #3
“Well, of course. It’s a wedding cake. It needs to taste good.” His big square palms land on the island with a thud. “What can I do?”
“Do you have a baking pan? You could oil it up for me.”
“Sure thing.” He reaches into the top cabinet and pulls out a rectangular pan. He then takes the butter from the counter, peels half the paper back, and slides it all over the pan, greasing it evenly as I crack two eggs into a bowl.
It’s oddly domestic the way we’re moving together. His massive frame tucking behind mine to pick up my eggshells and toss them into the trash. My arm reaching across his to grab the whisk he set out on the counter. It’s like we’re an old married couple cooking dinner on a random Sunday night.
“Hey,” I nudge his elbow gently as I mix the bowl, “what did your family do on Sundays?”
“Sundays?” He brushes his hand over his beard before grabbing out another bowl from beneath the counter. “Sunday was always church, chores, and supper. Why do you ask?”
I shrug and mix the cake slowly as I watch him grab out the flour and some butter from the freezer. “I always thought you could tell a lot about a person by how they spend their Sunday. You still do church, chores, and family supper?”
“Not like I used to. I should, but I’ve been dropping the ball lately.”
“How so?” I’m not even sure I’m whisking at this point. I’m mostly watching as his massive hands grate frozen butter into a pile of flour. This must be the secret technique he was talking about his grandma teaching him.
“I, ugh, I haven’t kept up with church and suppers since my grandparents died. I wish I had,” he shrugs, “but there’s no good excuse, I guess. This is nice, though. What about you? How do you spend your Sundays?”
“Umm,” I whisk a little quicker now, the scent of chocolate relaxing me a little, “when I was a kid and my mom was healthy, Sunday was the day we all went into the greenhouse and helped her with the gardens. No matter the time of year, she was always growing something. Cucumbers, peppers, flowers, squash, kale, she grew it all. We’d spend the day doing that, then we’d have family supper, and go to the ice cream shop out on Main Street. ”
“Oh, Moo’s. Almost forgot about that place.”
I grin, remembering the way my mom used to call the shop Moe’s. She thought it was funny because her nickname growing up was Moe.
“Anyway,” I wipe away a tear before it drops, “I don’t do anything now. Nathan loved working on Sundays, and the ice cream shop closed, which I don’t understand. It was always busy.”
“The owner passed away and no one’s taken it over yet. There’s another place out on Route Three, but it’s a drive.”
He grabs the buttermilk out of the fridge and pours it into the bowl before mixing the dough with his hands.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a man cook before, not in person. “So your grandma taught you this?”
She glances toward me, dark eyes warm and gentle. “She and I started making biscuits together before I could talk. Some days I’ll make them just to feel closer to her. This is the first time I’ve ever made them for a girl, though, so feel special.”
“Well, how could I not feel special? You kidnapped me from my wedding to make me biscuits and a chocolate cake.”
He grins as he lays the biscuits out on the counter, folding the dough into itself before grabbing a mason jar to cut circles. “If you could’ve planned your wedding, what would you have chosen?”
I grab the pan and scrape the cake in evenly. “Umm, I think I’d have wanted something in a wildflower field. Not many people. Just the sun, the flowers, and yeah… simple. What about you?”
He nods as he piles the biscuits into a cast iron dish. “Never thought about it. I figured that ship sailed for me a long time ago. I don’t think I’d be a good husband, anyway.”
I tilt my head to the side slowly, as I stick my finger inside the bowl to lick the edge. “Yet you’re desperate for me to call you Daddy.”
There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “There’s this responsibility with Daddy. This sense of need and reliance that I crave.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs, and I lift the pan, sliding it into the oven as he rinses out the bowl and stacks it into the dishwasher.
“I like feeling needed. I’m sure that makes me some kind of misogynistic asshole, right?
Your generation very much believes in women not needing a man.
Hell, I think my generation is full of independent, men-hating women too. ”
I shrug and narrow my brows. “Men-hating? No. A woman isn’t man-hating if she wants to be independent. She can be independent and like you taking control sometimes too.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing.” He swallows back a grin and glances toward me. “I think I like control all the time.” His jaw tenses a little. “For example, if I tell you to get out a bottle of water and drink the whole thing, would you do it?”
“What?”
“Your dehydrated, baby girl. You haven’t drunk enough today. Drink something for Daddy?”
“Are you telling me for real?”
He nods and my clit twitches. What the hell? The man just told me to drink water. He didn’t demand I spread my legs and show him how wet I am, though if he did, I’d be ready for him.
I open the fridge and pull out a bottle, handing him one as well. “I can drink because I’m thirsty. You should too.”
He takes the water in his hands and shakes his head. “And what if I told you to get on your knees and make Daddy come before that oven timer goes off, would you do that too?”
My clit throbs and my chest tightens as I stare up at the massive beast of a man before me.
I shouldn’t want to get on my knees for him.
I shouldn’t enjoy his demands.
Yet, I do… and I’m going to.