Chapter 11 Reese
She rubs her arms where my hands were and my palms itch to touch her again. I know I didn’t imagine whatever it was that just passed between us, and with the way she’s looking at anything except me, I’m confident she felt it too.
“Why don’t you let me help you this mornin’, and if you never want to see me again, I’ll try like hell to respect that,” I offer knowing good and damn well I’ll still find a way to see her.
There’s something about her that makes me feel needed.
I have no idea why since I just met her, and she seems to have her guard up every time we meet–save for that very first time at her flower booth–but I know I like it.
I like her…
Her eyes flick up to mine and her lips twist to the side. Turning around she glances at the clock and curses under her breath.
“Can you cook?” She asks with a worried smirk.
“I dabble,” I shrug, wanting her to make the decision for me to stay.
She looks around again, the diner chairs are still on top of tables, and if I had to guess there are about twenty other small tasks that need doing. She can’t do it all herself, and I’m happy to help.
“Just this once,” she says, holding up a finger.
With my hands up, held palms out, I chuckle, “We’ll see.”
She rolls her eyes, but walks back to the kitchen, plucks an apron off the rack by the office door and throws it at me.
“Only because I’m desperate,” she says as I loop the strap over my neck, tie it around my waist and wait for her instructions.
I’m not touching that comment, I may have been hit a few times in my days doing rodeo but I ain’t stupid.
“Have you ever made fiesta potatoes?” She asks, looking at me with apprehension on her face pulling out a printed recipe sheet.
“I think I can handle it,” I shrug, with a smirk.
She growls, and it’s so goddamn cute I have to remind myself to behave. I want her to want to see me again so I’m not about to piss her off–too much. Before Hank, I did all the cooking in the chow house, so I’m pretty good at making food in bulk.
She nods over to a sack of potatoes ready to be washed and cut. “Use the open bag first, dice them into quarter size chunks so they cook faster, and then just follow the recipe.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I smirk as she hurries to look away and starts to clean the flour spread over the table.
By the time I’ve peeled, cleaned, and quartered the potatoes she’s got the table in the middle of the kitchen filled with pie crust in pans ready to be baked. When she pulls the oven open a wave of heat washes over us and my temples sweat.
The hair at the back of her neck’s wet, and once her crusts are in the oven with heavy beans to help them cook evenly I offer her the towel I didn’t use for the potatoes.
Her eyes snap up, her cheeks are red, but she accepts the towel and I crank up the industrial size skillet ready to start sweating the onions. I hate cutting onions, but potatoes are better with them, flavor and all.
Once the onions are cut, I put them all on the skillet and let them caramelize before adding the peppers and potatoes.
“Where’s y’all’s spices?” I ask, and she crosses the kitchen to open a cabinet loaded with them.
Jars and jars of spices line the shelves and I smile.
Pulling all the things I need, she leaves me to it.
Her hips sway to music I can’t hear as she works at the mixer, and I suppress a groan.
Jesus, this woman has the body of a goddess, and I have the impulsive need to grab her waist and–
Be. Good.
I have to force myself to turn around and focus on the potatoes. After a while, she starts to hum and I smile. Chancing a look her way, she’s moving more, dancing to whatever song is on her mind.
Seasoning the potatoes, I test one and they’re perfect.
“Do you have somethin’ to put these in?” I ask, and she startles, whipping around and pausing.
“I forgot you were here,” she admits with a blush rising in her cheeks.
I laugh as she hurries around the table to grab a large tin pan and hands it to me. Scraping the potatoes off the skillet into the pan, she scowls.
“These don’t look anything like Fiesta Potatoes, I thought you said you could–” she cuts off as she takes a deep sniff and her stomach growls.
“Would you like to taste ’em?” I ask, nudging the pan in her direction. She nods, scooping a handful onto a paper plate and searching for a fork. Stabbing one of each; potato, onion, and pepper, she chews, closes her eyes, and the sound that travels out of her mouth should be fucking illegal.
Her head tilts to the side and her eyes pop open, neck flushing pink and she clears her throat. “These are really good.”
With a smirk, I nod.
“You can cook. Without following a recipe…” She squints as realization dawns on her and I laugh. I can’t help it.
“I told you, I dabble.”
“This is more than that, Old Man.” Her eyes round and she draws her lips in. “I’m sorry, I–that was incredibly rude,” she admits.
“True, but I like it coming from your lips,” I stop her and she flushes again. I want to see that over and over again. I want to see if her ass would turn the same color while I–
Dammit.
I need to get my shit together and stop thinking about her naked.
We stand there staring at each other, and I tentatively take a step closer. She doesn’t back away, and I’m jumping up and down in my head at the progress.
When I’m just a step away from her, and can hear her breath catch in the back of her throat, my phone rings.
With a sigh, I stop and pull it from my pocket. Yate’s name flashes on the screen and I send it to voicemail, but before I can put it back in my pocket it rings again. My gut squeezes and I swipe the lock to take the call. Stepping away from Lucy, I answer, “Yates?”
“Jarrett’s missing, he snuck out last night, I thought he was just bein’ a kid. But we can’t get a hold of him and his trucks still in the drive,” he rushes out, breaths labored and almost hysterical. I’ve never heard him anything but calm or indifferent.
“Have you called the police?” I ask, jumping into practical mode.
“Yes,” he breathes, “your mother’s been cryin’ all mornin’, and nothin’ I do is helpin’.”
I hate hearing that, but knowing Jarrett, he’s probably out with his friends, ignoring their calls, and being a little shit.
Of course I can’t say that, so I sigh and head for the front door, pausing to take the apron off and spinning around to find Lucy at the counter. I hadn’t realized she followed me.
“I’m sorry,” I start, then hear Yate’s on the other end of the line question me. “Not… I’ll meet you at the house.”
Hanging up, I offer Lucy the apron. “I have to go, family situation.”
She nods, taking the apron and features softening. “Is everythin’ okay?”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I offer, reaching out to pluck one of the tendrils of hair that’s escaped her hair tie and sweeping it behind her ear. “I enjoyed cooking with you, Goldie.”
“I did too,” she says, giving me a sweet smile that I can’t wait to see again.