Chapter 7 Adair
ADAIR
My good mood about the book signing lasts all week. Even slogging through chores doesn’t burst my happy little bubble. Humming to myself, I head towards the stairs with an armload of clean laundry.
I pause in front of my favorite picture from our wedding.
Jack rolled his eyes when I said I wanted to get this one enlarged and framed, but I’ve caught him just standing in front of it, too, wearing a smile so sappy I’m sure he’d die of embarrassment if he could see himself.
Maybe I’ll try to sneak a picture of him next time. The thought makes me grin.
I remember how Lucille, the photographer, kept trying to get Jack to smile. He, of course, was having none of it, even if it was our wedding. In all fairness, I do think he looks insanely hot in the pictures where he’s just staring down the camera with a brooding, vaguely menacing expression.
But he was being stubborn and wouldn’t smile for any of them, and I could tell Lucille was getting frustrated. When a sudden idea flashed through my head, I dragged Jack over to a big tree.
He looked puzzled until I spun around and pressed myself against it.
Even through the fabric of my dress shirt, the bark felt rough against my back.
I grabbed his hands to put them onto my shoulders and murmured under my breath, “Think about how happy you’re going to be tonight when you’re turning your husband’s ass red and making him cry. ”
That did the trick. Lucille perfectly captured Jack looking down at me with a rare, playful grin lighting up his features.
I’m still standing there when he walks in.
“You and that picture,” he says, his voice gruff.
I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t bust my chops about being sentimental.
Instead, he sort of sighs and comes up behind me.
I lean into the solid wall of his torso and hum with contentment when he puts his arms around me.
His beard tickles the side of my face, and I feel his breath against my ear. “Why do you like that one so much, huh? You give that damn picture googly eyes every time you walk past it.”
I most definitely do not, but I’m feeling too mellow to argue that point right now. “You look sexy,” I say.
He snorts. “Yeah, sure.” He nips at my earlobe. “You look good, though. Like usual.” My belly flutters at his words.
With a sigh, Jack releases me and heads towards the back of the house. “I left a fucking disaster out in my workshop when I fixed that slat on the picnic bench yesterday. Gonna go clean everything up.”
Knowing Jack, that probably means there’s a screwdriver out of place. I fight to hide my smirk. “I’ll tackle the mess I made of the grill.”
Jack rolls his eyes. “Please do. The chicken was definitely better like that, but I still think that burnt-on shit will be a nightmare to clean off the grates. I don’t want that crud there the next time I’m cooking.”
Bossy asshole. “Oh ye of little faith. I said I’d take care of it, and I will,” I reply, maybe sounding just a touch bratty.
I get the laundry put away and head outside to tackle the grill. After giving the charred residue a couple of passes with a wire brush, I decide it would be smarter to try and burn off as much as I can, then tackle the remainder once it’s hot.
I fire it up and close the lid. I’m still not looking forward to the chore, but wandering around on the deck for a few minutes lifts my mood. If I manage to clean the grill to Jack’s satisfaction, maybe that will convince him that I’m capable of doing more of the cooking.
It’s not exactly a sore spot between us, but the fact that Jack still doesn’t really trust me in the kitchen makes me feel like a child. Although to be fair, I would probably be more pissed-off if I hadn’t scorched the bottoms of multiple pots. And fucked up the finish on his favorite skillet.
I am learning things, though. Such as: Cast-iron is a pain in the ass to re-season.
OK, so maybe he kind of has a point.
I grin as my eyes fall on the now-repaired picnic bench.
Jack and I got a little carried away a couple of nights ago.
I walk over to the deck railing and collect my favorite plaid throw blanket that we’d brought out with us that night, and that I brought back out here to hang dry after I washed it.
I check to make sure that the unholy mess of jizz, spit and lube came out of the fabric, a smile tugging at my lips as I fold it.
Hey, I’m multitasking. I’m feeling pretty good about it until I turn back towards the grill. I let out a squeak of fear when I see a little tendril of flame in the gap between the lid and the base.
Oh, fuck me. Fuck me hard. I dash over, my heart in my throat and an acrid, burnt-sugar smell in my nose. I have to get the gas turned off immediately.
I grab the first burner knob without thinking. The searing heat makes me yelp and jerk my hand back. In a panic, I use the blanket to protect my hand as I turn the rest of the burners off. Tears well in my eyes from the pain plus the awful thought that I fucked up Jack’s grill.
I realize my cry of pain must have been louder than I thought when I hear Jack shout my name. He runs across the yard and takes the deck stairs two at a time. “Are you hurt? Is the gas still on?”
When Jack’s gaze falls next to the grill, I feel like the world’s biggest idiot. I could’ve just turned off the propane tank sitting there without burning my hand. Or the blanket, which now has a couple of dark scorch marks and a jagged hole.
A lump builds in my throat. I’m crying before I realize it and I don’t entirely know why, which makes me feel even dumber and more pathetic. It’s not just the pain, although that’s also climbing now that my adrenaline is receding.
“I’m sorry about the blanket,” I mumble.
“Jesus Christ, Bunny! I don’t care about the damn blanket.” Jack takes me by the wrist so gently that I start crying harder. “Let me see that hand.”
Reluctantly, I uncurl my fingers, wincing at the pain.
He lets out a low whistle. I make the mistake of looking down and find myself fighting a swell of nausea at the sight.
When my vision blurs around the edges, I feel Jack’s arms around me, pulling me down onto the picnic bench before crouching down next to me.
“Sorry.” My voice is faint. “I’m just a wimp about this shit. I won’t pass out or anything. Promise.” When I stretch out my hand for Jack to examine more closely, though, I don’t look at it — just in case.
“Got a couple of nasty blisters there. You hurt anywhere else?” He gives me a once-over and I shake my head, trying to get ahold of myself. But when I look down at the blanket, my breath hitches again. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin it,” I choke out.
Jack spares a half-second to throw a glance at the blanket. “Yeah, don’t think there’s any fixing that.” He doesn’t sound especially angry about it, but I can’t stop my lower lip from wobbling anyway.
“That was your favorite blanket, though. And mine, too.”
When he looks more carefully at the damage, a flicker of sadness crosses his face before he chases it off with a scowl. “I don’t give a shit,” he says gruffly as he stands up. “Better that than your hand.”
I know he’s lying, but between the pain in my hand and the sick feeling I get from looking at the scorched fabric, I’m grateful for it.