Chapter 31
31
[Vale]
O n Friday night, Stone is gone for the weekend.
A rare escape with Emerson Milton although he refuses to talk about her or what’s going on between them.
In another rare incident, I’ve allowed Hudson to spend the night at Atticus Stanton’s after speaking with Henry, who assured me he’d be home all evening.
I’m giving myself a night off.
Despite our tight embrace earlier in the week, Cort and I went our separate ways.
An alarm on his phone went off and he told me he had to get to a job site.
As for me, I’d needed a few minutes to process what I’d learned.
I sat in nature while my mind raced.
Like the bees I tend, my head buzzed here, there, and everywhere.
Five days after his explanation, my brain is still swirling.
Other than a quick text from Cort, thanking me for listening to him, it’s been radio silence.
I’d like to call bullshit on us being done with one another, but I don’t have the bandwidth to argue with the man.
Instead, I’m baking a cake.
While Sebastian is the true baker in our family, my skill isn’t too bad either.
After having peanut butter and honey on whole wheat on more than one occasion lately, I’ve decided to bake a honey lemon cake, which reminds me of Cort’s mother.
Mary Haven is the closest example I have of what a mother should be like, other than living my own experience.
As a child, her love and affection toward her children was something I’d longingly stare at, puzzled by it, envious of it.
While mixing all the ingredients for my cake, including three heaping tablespoons of honey, I receive a text.
I want to be stung.
A bee emoji follows the statement, along with a heart.
I could interpret that request a million ways, and probably none of them would be correct.
I tap my phone with my knuckle because my hands are messy and stare down at the message.
A week ago, he tells me he’s done.
Days later, he nearly cries.
Men?!
I wash my hands, giving him a second to stew over my initial lack of response.
Is this a booty call?
On another occasion, the response might be flirtatious, even fun, but I’m just not in the mood.
I can’t. I’m baking a cake .
The excuse is almost as weak as washing my hair in order avoid a date with someone or claiming to be in the shower and unable to take a phone call, but the cake is a legitimate reason not to chase Cort and with the irritated energy suddenly buzzing around me I just don’t have patience for him right now.
I’ve given him compassion.
I’ve expressed my concern.
I’ve forgiven him for past transgressions.
Three little bubbles pop up and then disappear.
Three more appear and then vanish.
“Guess that’s that.”
Even if I had been tempted to run to Cort’s house, I promised myself I would never pursue a man, and this baking cake is my sign to stay put.
Stirring up the ingredients again, I pour equal amounts into three separate round tins.
I’m making a three-layer cake with raspberry preserves and butter cream frosting in the middle.
The secret ingredient is a homemade lemon-honey glaze that soaks into the layers.
Fresh raspberries would be a better garnish, but store-bought ones will do as well.
The final result will be a naked cake.
No frosting on the sides but heaps of it in between the layers.
The timer on the oven goes off thirty-five minutes later and I pull the three tins from the oven, setting them on wire racks.
While they cool, I begin the honey glaze which involves heating honey, freshly squeezed lemon juice, and lemon zest. As I pour the concoction into a pot, a knock comes to the front door.
As I’m alone, miles from town, and it’s getting late, I’m not expecting anyone, and there isn’t really a reason for someone to stop by without a specific purpose.
So, I hesitate, sneaking a glance through a small gap in the living room curtain before approaching the front door.
With a flourish, I open the door and stare at the man on my front porch .
“Another house call? Need a massage?”
Cort gives me a sheepish smile, twirling a baseball cap in his hand.
“I deserve that.”
He’s taken a risk to come to the house again.
Hudson could be here.
Stone too. Tilting my head to the side, I state, “This is dangerous.”
His dark eyes meet mine through the screen door barrier between us.
“You told me to be a little bit scared.”
I can’t fight the smile curling my lips as I open the exterior door.
He should be real scared to openly stand on the front porch of the house I share with Stone.
“How do you know if I’m alone?” I ask as he crosses into the living room.
“Heard a rumor Stone was out of town with Emerson. Saw Hudson in Rogue River earlier with the Stanton’s getting pizzas. Took my chances there was no one else.” He pauses in the living room and faces me.
“Despite that lame cake excuse.”
“There’s no one else, Cort,” I confirm quietly, lowering my gaze.
He’s the only one I want.
“And the cake wasn’t an excuse. I’m really baking one.”
He inhales and turns his head in the direction of the kitchen.
“Smells delicious and like something is burning.”
“Shit.” I race to the kitchen, finding my honey glaze boiling when it should be simmering.
“Crap.” I quickly turn off the burner and whisk the ingredients, hoping I haven’t overdone it but the browned edges in the pot say I have.
“I’ll need to start over,” I mutter to myself, taking the pot from the stove and setting it on a hot pad near the sink.
Cort stands on the opposite side of our kitchen island while I work, mixing up fresh ingredients before pulling out a clean pot.
“The house looks nice.”
I glance up to see him looking around the kitchen.
Long gone are the dingy, dark cabinets and scuffed countertops .
“Thanks. Years ago, Stone gutted this place, and I designed the renovation.” We went with open concept as best we could, maximizing the space to include the island but still allowing for a kitchen table.
A formal dining room exists off to the left, although we hardly use the space other than for buffets to accommodate Sunday meals in the cooler months or the holidays.
After mentioning Stone, I hesitate.
I’ve had time to process that my long explanation about Sylver Sundays was the tipping point with Cort.
However, if I can’t even mention my brother, Cort and I aren’t ever going to have something deeper.
We will only be surface level, like on countertops and king-sized beds, and again, I’m just not in the mood.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, flicking my gaze toward him before just as quickly looking away.
“I wanted to see you, Vale.”
“Get a good look last night?” I comment, turning toward the stovetop and pouring the honey glaze into the fresh pot.
When Hudson had another baseball game yesterday, Cort saw me, and I’d missed another book club.
Suddenly, I feel Cort behind me.
“Not enough of one.”
I close my eyes, caught between his words sounding like a pickup line and a seductive plea.
“Cort,” I sigh, twirling a wooden spoon around the glaze.
“What do you want?”
“I want to be a little scared. With you.”
At his reference to my first beekeeping years, my head pulls up so fast, I knock the spoon against the pot, startling both of us.
Turning back to the glaze, I give it another stir, staring into the gooey mixture that suddenly matches the consistency of my insides.
Cort’s hand hesitantly comes to my lower back as he steps even closer to me.
“I don’t know how this will work, Vale. Hiding out in my house makes it seem a bit sordid, but then again, our business isn’t other people’s business. However, I’d like to be more open about us. I want to tell my mom and Clint. Hell, even Tate and Trinity.”
The reference to his sister adds to my guilt.
I pretended I didn’t know Cort was dating anyone.
I tip my head, glancing at him over my shoulder.
“You know what this might mean for me, though, right?”
“You’re going to catch hell from Stone.” Anguish fills his eyes a second.
He doesn’t want me to hurt my brother any more than I want to hurt him.
“I’m not worried about my brother.” Maybe I could reasonably talk to Stone.
Maybe he’d understand that we don’t choose who we love, we just love.
And I want to love Cort.
I’ve been loving him my entire life, faults and all.
“Okay, I’m a little bit worried about him,” I admit.
“I could talk to him.” There are several reasons why Cort should talk to my brother, but I’m flattered that he’s willing to go to bat for me.
For us. “I don’t want this to be difficult for you.”
“The difficult part has been you shutting down on me for a week.” I speak before I can hold the words back and turn to tend the heating honey glaze.
“I’m sorry I hurt you again,” Cort whispers behind me.
I nod once, accepting the apology but still stung by his rejection.
I don’t need a marriage proposal, but I’m also not looking for a rollercoaster ride with this man.
Cort swipes his hand up my back and squeezes at the nape of my neck.
He clears his throat.
“Can I help somehow?”
“I’ve got it. This just needs to cool a bit, the cakes as well, and then I can apply the glaze and frost them.” I turn off the stove and step over to the island with the hot pot.
Cort follows me and reaches for the open bottle of wine on the counter to refill my glass .
“Want a beer?”
“I’d love one.” His sly smile lights up his face.
Like I’m offering him something more than a beverage.
I’m giving him time.
After getting him a beer, I set the glaze in a glass jar to cool and clean up the mess I’ve already made.
Cort helps himself to a dish towel hanging off a hook and dries all the bowls and utensils.
We work mostly in silence, just taking up space with one another, which is different, of course, from sharing a kitchen with my brother.
This sensation is foreign but nice.
“Think your brother will tell you that you can’t see me?” Cort eventually asks, his tone heavy.
“Think I still don’t listen to my big brother all the time,” I sass like the teenager I once was, frustrated when Stone tried to tell me what to do.
“I respect my brother, but I don’t kowtow to him.”
Cort roughly chuckles.
“I bet you’ve been a real pain in the ass over the years.”
I snort.
“Bees sting, Cortland.”
“The queen especially.” He winks.
I laugh as I scrub down the sink and turn off the faucet.
“Want to watch a movie?” Next on my night alone list was watching a rom-com.
Cake. Wine. And mindless romance.
A perfect combination.
Cort shrugs, picks up both his beer and my wine glass and follows me into the living room.
Within minutes, I queue up a movie and we watch the hero fumble around his attraction to the heroine.
The acting is weak and when the sex scene begins, I pause the film.
“Why do men think they can say such a thing?”
“What thing?”
Cort and I are sitting next to each other, but we feel miles apart.
I’m curled over the armrest with my knees bent and feet against his thigh.
His hand holds my ankle, but we still feel disconnected.
Pulling up a deep masculine voice, I mock, “I’m so hard for you.”
Cort sputters.
“What?”
“You never hear or read a woman say, I’m so wet for you .” I use a false soprano to mimic my own kind.
Cort’s been holding his beer bottle on his upper thigh, and he lifts the glass to his mouth, muttering, “Jesus,” before he takes a sip.
I lift the remote, aiming it toward the screen, when Cort cuffs my wrist. “What else?”
“What else what?”
“What are other things men get away with saying but women don’t?”
I shift on the couch, dipping my toes beneath his thigh, taking a second to think of a few other statements fictional men make.
“ I can’t wait to fill you up ,” I mock in a rugged voice then drop to my own.
“Never hear a woman say aloud I can’t wait to be filled by you .”
Cort shifts slightly, draping his arm over the back of the couch as his upper body faces mine.
“And why is that?”
“I don’t know,” I nearly shriek.
“Like women should get to be just as vocal. Turning all those phrases around.”
“Agreed.” Cort nods, his eyes gleaming, humoring me, before setting his beer bottle on the floor and covering my ankle again.
“What else?” His voice drops lower as he tugs my foot into his lap and knuckles the arch of it.
“Guys are always like, I can’t wait to see her lips wrapped around my cock .” My masculine impression isn’t wavering.
“How about a woman says, I can’t wait to see your head between my thighs?”
Cort arches a brow at me .
“It’s not an invitation. I’m just saying?—”
“Why isn’t it an invitation?” Cort questions, looking up at me at the same time he adds pressure against the bottom of my foot.
My leg jerks, kicking at him.
“So, this is a booty call?”
When Cort doesn’t immediately answer, I throw my legs off the couch and rise.
“I need more wine. And it’s time to glaze the cake.”
What is wrong with me?
I’m not trying to pick a fight with him.
I’m also not trying to seduce him.
I just don’t understand what he’s doing here.
And I don’t know why I’m tossing out sexual comments, when my brain keeps saying don’t go there.
Once back in the kitchen, I reach for the bottle of wine, but Cort is right behind me, and he covers my hand.
“Vale,” he whispers near my ear.
“I’m here because I’ve missed you.” Sincerity fills his voice, and I turn to face him.
He’s so close. Too close.
Close enough I get a strong whiff of his now-familiar scent.
Balsam fir and a hint of asphalt.
Beer and mint on his breath.
I close my eyes fighting the pull to him.
“I need to glaze the cake.” My comment rumbles in my throat, choking down the admission of how much I’ve missed him.
“Bee.” He cups the side of my neck with one hand, and I glance up at him.
His mouth is inches from mine, holding still, waiting for my permission.
And I gently push against his chest.
“Cake,” I whisper.
The weight of his absence still weighs heavily on me.
I need more time to pull myself together and tap down my conflicting desires.
I want him. I want him not .
I just want him to want me.
Cort steps back, giving me the space I need to brush the honey glaze on the top of each layer, allowing the sticky sweetness to drip into the spongy cake.
He has refilled my wine glass and leans against the counter while I work, diligently watching me stroke the pastry brush back and forth over each layer .
“Ready for round two of the movie?” I ask after cleaning up by sealing the glaze in a jar and lightly placing plastic wrap over each cake layer.
When Cort doesn’t answer, I glance at him, feet apart from me between the kitchen island and the sink counter.
“I want a second chance,” he states, holding his gaze on me.
“With you.”
No words have ever surprised me more, and I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly our mouths clash.
We are a frenzy of lips and tongues, roaming hands and the removal of his short-sleeved shirt.
Ideally, he’d pick me up and pin me to the wall, but with his bum knee and bad back, I have another idea.
“Let’s go to my room.”