Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Luc
W ith ten days until my grandfather’s arrival, my stress levels had ratcheted up significantly. I’d tried reasoning my way into telling him the truth and pleading with him to respect my choice, but whether because of my stubborn pride, or that child in me who hated how he’d dismissed my mother, even in death, I couldn’t bring myself to give in.
At some point, I’d have to swallow that pride and level with him. Maybe a few months from now, when all the drama from this visit had faded. Maybe we’d even have a few moments to connect while he was here and that would help.
And so, I made plans with Elise. We’d chatted more on the mornings I’d gotten donuts, at least when she didn’t have customers lined up. And we’d gone to lunch once, I’d brought her coffee for another round of twenty questions, and we’d been texting. Nothing constant or formal, just… questions as they popped up.
Things like when we learned to drive—her at sixteen, me at eighteen since at the time, I was in France—and what our favorite subject in school was—her English and math, me, history. I asked her when her first kiss was and she took a full ten minutes to respond as compared to formerly instant back and forth, at which point she responded, “I think we should meet up and practice. ”
Practice… kissing?
My mind launched into a litany of explanations for what she meant, but I shut it down and asked her to tell me when. Tone and intention couldn’t be read over text message, so I’d wait to clarify until we were in person. This way, she could lead the conversation and set the pace.
The combination of anticipation and anxiety made me drive a little faster to her house, then ease off and give myself a stern talking to when I realized I was rushing everything. I’d buttoned my shirt wrong, done a poor job of tying my left shoe, and I was certain that if I’d shaved, I would’ve missed half my face. Fortunately, I hadn’t shaved, nor had it been a day to trim my facial hair, or I likely would’ve left a bare line in the middle of my chin.
By the time I reached her door, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t continue this manic pace. I would be calm and receptive to whatever she wanted to practice.
“I already made dinner, so I hope you listened to me,” Elise said as she stepped back, welcoming me into her space.
She’d joked more than once that I’d show up to wherever she was and foist food on her, but it wasn’t all wrong. I liked feeding her. She’d fed me so many times, it felt right I should return the favor.
“You said you were making dinner, so I didn’t bring anything.” I held up a bottle of wine. “Except this.”
She grinned and took the bottle. “Thank you. That was thoughtful.”
“I can be thoughtful, despite what it may seem,” I said, following her into the kitchen.
She eyed me. “Why would you say that? I haven’t thought of you as anything but thoughtful.” She set the bottle of wine on the counter and slid me a wine key.
“Family stuff, I guess. My grandfather liked to make sure I knew he thought I was thoughtless. To him, my refusal to do what he wanted translated into being a generally thoughtless person. Or maybe the even more unspoken thing back then was selfish person. But he said that outright to me when I joined the military.”
She chuckled as she stirred something in a large pan on the stove. “Funny how going into the military could be considered selfish. It’s a form of service.”
I pulled the cork and filled two glasses with healthy pours of the robust red wine. I hoped she’d like it. “It can be. For some people, it’s service. For some, it’s a job when there’s no other option. For some, it’s an escape.” I thought of Kenny, for whom it’d definitely become one. But he was also someone who served.
“They call it serving in the military for a reason. I don’t think a person’s motives have to be altruistic to qualify. There are naturally things that a person does in the military, things they give up and things they take on, that is different than anything else.”
The edge in her voice, the way it sounded defensive of me and my friends and anyone else who’d served, sparked in my chest.
I stepped closer and held out her glass of wine, which she took. “Well then, to those who served.”
Her lips slid up into a bright smile. “To those who served.”
Our gazes held as we each tipped back the glasses and took our first sips. My eyes dipped to her lips as she pressed them together like she was savoring the flavor of the wine.
My stomach clenched and I swayed forward, then cleared my throat and pulled back, remembering myself. She turned quickly and spoke to the pan.
“Could you get the salad stuff out of the fridge? I have some field greens and a vinaigrette I made earlier. Nothing fancy.”
Did she have any idea how long it’d been since I’d enjoyed a simple homemade meal with a woman? Maybe this didn’t technically count as a date, but it should’ve. It did, in my opinion.
My friends and I often cooked for each other, especially during ski season when the restaurants were so full of tourists it made quick pop ins less appealing. But this… having her slide chicken and wild rice onto our plates then bustle to set them down at her tiny table while I brought the salad bowl and dressing along with my wine… it all felt so good.
A facile thought, maybe, but I couldn’t deny that the simple domestic routine of preparing dinner together sent a needle of longing weaving in and out between my ribs.
“So, pretty basic. It’s just chicken and some wild rice and salad. I’m sorry it’s not?—”
She waved her hand and I caught it, giving into the temptation to touch her. “This looks delicious. Thank you so much for cooking.”
She pulled in a breath and I released her instantly, not wanting to encroach, but certain I couldn’t listen to her apologize for making me dinner. Even if it proved inedible, her efforts were genuinely kind, and I wouldn’t think of demeaning them.
“Thank you. I mean, you’re welcome.” She pressed her lips together like she had to or she’d say something else.
We took our seats and dug in. Happily, the food was all delicious. Simple, sure, but flavorful and well-cooked. It was perfect.
“This is excellent, Elise. Thank you,” I said, finishing my last bite. We’d hardly spoken, and I’d become ravenous after the first taste.
She finished chewing and studied me while she did. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone eat an entire meal in five minutes.”
I swallowed a sip of wine. “Then you’ve not spent much time with soldiers, I’d guess.”
She chuckled and took a drink, too. “Maybe not. Or if I have, they’ve all been on their best behavior.”
“That’s it exactly. We tend to force ourselves to slow down and act decently fairly well.”
“Should I be alarmed or honored you don’t feel the need to slow down for me?” She leaned back in her seat, her shoulders relaxed, and her eyes soft.
Seeing her so comfortable brought me something more than relief—it brought me a bright, almost glowing sensation of pleasure.
“Definitely honored. Your food was so good, I forgot my manners.”
Her laugh was deliciously disbelieving. “Of course it was.”
“I’ll always tell you the truth,” I said, hoping she’d believe me because I meant it. So far, I hadn’t lied to her, and I didn’t intend to. I wanted her to trust that.
“I think I believe you.”
“Good.”
Her dark eyes hooked into mine, and the thought that I could drown there flashed in my head. What a cheesy, useless thought, and yet the need to stay latched into her kept me glued to my seat, until she broke away and stood.
We cleared the table together, and though she refused to let me rinse dishes, she did let me help load her dishwasher.
Our hands brushed, and I counted each one. One, two, a slow slide of fingers as we passed off plates. Three, four , a delicious graze when I brushed past her to rinse a bowl.
And then it happened.
Those eyes drew me in and seemed to ask a question. They seemed to say, will you stop what you’re doing and look at me? And I did. I paused my movement when we were face to face and just shy of bodies meeting in the small space of her kitchen. I dipped my head down and her chin tipped up so our gazes locked yet again and she breathed out slowly.
“Are we going to practice kissing?” Her words came out in a rushed sound slightly more than a whisper.
It was all I could do to keep from closing my eyes against the crush of wanting, against the assumption that this was an invitation, but I did. Because her pupils were a bit wider than they should’ve been, and even though she seemed to welcome contact, we couldn’t start at a kiss.
I abandoned the bowl in my hand to the counter and set my palm next to her hip. Not caging her in but steadying myself and giving me a gauge for the space between us. Drawn to her, I resisted connecting us from thigh to chest and gritted out a sentence I didn’t like admitting.
“I don’t think it’s time quite yet.” What I wouldn’t say? I don’t think I can handle it.
It couldn’t be spoken, nor did I want to look the truth in the face. If we did kiss— when we did—I needed to be ready.
Her lashes fluttered and the dip between her brows formed. “I’m sorry, I?—”
I took her chin in my hand, my touch soft but demanding. “I want to kiss you, Elise. Very much. But I will not do so until you tell me to.”