Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Hunter
It smells like peach pie, looks like peach pie, tastes like…
N o good can come from wishing for a different history, but it doesn’t make the lasting ramifications from it any easier to swallow. For the first time in a long time, I have someone I’m hurrying to get home to. I have a spark of hope. Eleanor can’t erase my pain any more than I can erase hers, but I have a gut instinct that together, we can build a life that heals us both.
I leave my motorcycle in the compound and do a quick pit stop at my apartment to check on Charlie and change my shirt. He jumps around like I’ve been gone for days rather than a few hours, then huffs at the empty guest room.
“I know, buddy, I’m going to get our girl now.”
He curls up on the sofa and glares at me as I leave without him. He’s used to being around someone almost constantly, and while he can manage a few hours alone, I hate leaving him. If he’s not with me, he’s bugging Mark or wooing Rose. Anyone and everyone is fair game where my dog is concerned. They are his pack.
Walking faster than normal, I try to push away the crushing guilt with little success. This morning was bad, worse than I’ve seen her in a long time. All hell broke loose, triggered by a change in routine and a misunderstanding over which day of the week it is. It required more intervention than she’s needed in a long time. She thought it was Sunday, and when she asked what I would be bringing her today, the new nurse, who wasn’t clued into her care, answered honestly that I wasn’t coming. My heart crumples in my chest. That resulted in her barricading herself inside her bathroom with her back plastered against the door and her feet against the wall. They could have forced their way inside, but they would have broken her legs doing so.
Then I half engineered a situation where Eleanor was with Cheryl because I’m terrified that, with enough time to really think about what we are together, she would run. I know for a fact Cheryl will have kept her busy enough to not allow her time to form a plan. Plus, I’ve got different plans for us tomorrow. She tore open her soul for me, and it’s only fair I do the same back.
I push open the door to the bakery and blink as loud and familiar feminine laughter echoes from the kitchen. Striding in, I find Cheryl and Eleanor doubled over with a peach pie between them. They are both clutching forks, and a little piece of the pie is gone. Did someone lace the pie? William has a hard line on drugs in town, so it seems unlikely. Eleanor’s normally put together appearance is frayed at the edges. Her hair is piled on the top of her head in a messy bun, a few tendrils framing her cheeks which have a dusting of flour, and there are little orange blobs on her white T-shirt that look suspiciously like peach pie filling.
I lean my shoulder against the edge of the door and grin. “What are you cooking up, trouble?”
Cheryl straightens and glances at me over her shoulder. She notices the out of character long sleeve shirt—an unusual choice for the Texas heat—and her face loses its mirth. Eleanor, meanwhile, gasps for breath between bouts of laughter.
“We cooked you a peach pie,” Cheryl says. Not much of an explanation when it comes to my woman practically losing her mind, but that’s fine. I can wait.
“Okay,” I drawl.
“I’ll let you two finish up in here. Will needs me at home. Rose came back late, and I need to diffuse them before carnage occurs.”
“I approve,” Cheryl mouths, winking at me before disappearing out of the door and leaving us alone.
I move into the kitchen and crowd Eleanor against the side of the metal worktop. She’s still shaking with laughter and there’s a lightness to her I’ve never seen before. It looks good on her. So good, I want to make sure it’s a part of her life every day. “You want to let me in on the joke?” I ask.
“I made you pie,” she says as she waves toward the treat.
“And you cooking is hilarious?”
“No, but...” She digs her fork into the pie and pulls a big chunk out. “Taste it.”
I wrap my lips around the fork and pull the pie into my mouth. I cough as my eyes water, forcing myself to choke it down. She watches me carefully. Am I meant to lie and say it’s the best pie I’ve ever had because she made it for me? No. Lies, even white ones, aren’t going to work between us.
“That’s—”
I grab a glass and fill it with water before swigging it to get rid of the taste. My nose curls, my eyes watering as I glare at the offending pastry. It lingers. Metallic, salty, spicy, sweet—it’s weird and gross and seemingly impossible, yet…
“Awful,” she finishes. Her eyes crinkle at the sides. She’s clearly not upset about the pie.
“What did you do?” I wheeze. Cheryl guards that recipe with her life, but even basic peach pie shouldn’t taste like that.
“I don’t cook,” she reminds me. “But Cheryl offered to help make your favorite.”
“She gave you her recipe?”
“Yes, but rest assured, I fucked it up. I can’t even remember what I did so I can prevent this monstrosity from happening again.” Her lips quirk as she finally meets my eyes. “When you label two similar substances with the letter S, but one is salt and the other sugar, you should expect fuck ups. Also, tablespoons and teaspoons are easily muddled. Someone should come up with a better measurement system that doesn’t have the same letters. Ridiculous.”
“What did you add that is making my mouth burn?”
“Cinnamon. Lots and lots of cinnamon.”
I refrain from scraping the taste from my tongue with a sponge. Barely. “And the metallic taste?”
“A bakers thingy I also confused.”
“In short, you should leave the cooking to me?”
“It’s like you know me,” she says with a grin.
I return her smile and lean down to steal a kiss. It’s sweet, hot, utterly intoxicating, and something I’ll never tire of as long as I live. Eleanor is a knockout on a bad day, but disheveled like this makes me think of the aftereffects of her being in my kitchen last night. My cock jumps in my jeans, eager to be a part of the action. I pull away, and she giggles.
“Now what?”
“You have a little—” She makes a sweeping motion with her hand over her cheek.
“I have a little what, trouble?” I make a show out of wiping the wrong cheek, and some of the storm clouds surrounding me lift at her smile.
“No, here,” she mutters, reaching out to help. I take advantage, and instead of letting her help me, I grasp her hips and lift her onto the counter before kissing her senseless. Her legs wrap around my waist, and she groans into my mouth, my tongue taking full advantage of the easy access. My hand tangles in her hair, and I tug it the way I know she loves. My lips leave hers, and I start kissing her throat and tugging her T-shirt out of her jeans so I can get my hands on her hot skin.
“We are not doing this here,” she rumbles.
“You smell like fucking peaches,” I answer. Yes. Here. Now. My tongue glides across her collarbone.
“Hunter,” she breathes.
But she moves against me, restless, needy, her body seeking the release it knows only I can give. My fingers flick open the top button of her jeans, and I glide the zipper down before slipping my finger into her panties. Fuck. She’s wet already. Touching Eleanor reminds me there is good in the world.
My fingers flick over her hidden hoop, and she shudders against me as a flood of wet heat soaks my hand. I already know she’s tight from having my tongue shoved inside her as she came apart, but as I slide one thick finger inside her walls, I realize how much of a squeeze it’s going to be.
“Please,” she breathes against my neck as I start to move in slow shallow thrusts. I fucking love the way she melts for me. “Not here.”
I freeze. “You want me to stop?”
“No, just relocate.”
I snort as I move my finger faster, causing her to groan and tighten around me, then I’m coughing and blinking through a white cloud, my entire body stilling despite me being inside her.
“Did you flour me?” I ask.
“Oops?”
I huff as I tear my hand free from her panties. “Oops?” I parrot, grabbing her arm and hauling her over my shoulder before slapping her ass, leaving a bright white handprint on the dark denim.
“What are you doing?” she asks between laughter.
“Taking you home.” I march out of the bakery and stride down the busy sidewalk, greeting wide-eyed folks as I go.
“Oh my god,” she grumbles, burying her face between my shoulder blades. “Can we bypass the caveman routine? It’s not really my scene.”
“Nope. You lost the right to walk home with dignity when you dumped flour over me. All you had to do was lie back and take my fingers.”
“Afternoon, Hunter,” Liam says with a nod. He’s the fourth person to engage us, and every time Eleanor grumbles about me being a Neanderthal, which makes them chuckle and me grin. We make it into my building as Mark steps out of his apartment. He grins at my precious load.
“Good, you’re home. You have a delivery.” The way he says it, with a mischievous glint in his eye, makes me instantly suspicious. He’s got a reputation for practical jokes, and I have my hands full with Eleanor, literally. Delays aren’t appreciated.
Mark dives back into his apartment and reappears with two brown boxes. There aren’t any markings or a return address; nothing to give any indication about where they came from.
“I didn’t order anything,” I mutter as I stride up the stairs toward him.
“One is addressed to her,” Mark says, grinning even wider.
“Oh my god,” Eleanor gasps, stiffening against my shoulder. The action isn’t filled with fear like I’d assume. My instant thought was that Christopher is toying with us, but she’s more logical than me. What am I missing here?
“What did you order, trouble?” I hum. Both parcels appear to be identical, but I still don’t know where they’re from. More importantly, what did she order for me?