Chapter 13 #2
“I’ll wash my hands first.” He makes a claw motion with his fingers. The urge to lick them clean crashes over me and almost knocks me off my feet.
Wildly inappropriate.
Even for fake boyfriends, that’s over the line, especially when one of us has just been through a traumatic experience.
“Sink’s right there.” I nod toward it, as though it’s not completely obvious.
“Turn the water on for me so I don’t get everything gross.”
Doing so puts me dangerously close to Aidan. It takes every ounce of willpower to turn it on without staring at his hands or any other part of him.
“What kind of pie takes maple syrup sauce?” As hesitant as I was to let him help, the distraction does seem to perk Aidan up a bit. He’s even smiling, the color having returned to his face. It only makes me feel slightly better about the way my body’s responding to him.
“It’s called… better-than-sex.” A name that sounded cute and funny when I picked it out online. I’m only now realizing how often I’m going to have to say the word sex over the next twenty-four hours.
“Really?” He cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow.
“That’s what the recipe says.” I point toward the tablet propped up on the backsplash, where the recipe’s displayed on the screen.
“Do you think it will be?”
“What?”
“Do you think the pie will be better than sex?”
“I’m pretty sure that if you think a little chocolate and maple are better than sex, you aren’t doing it right.”
Aidan flushes a deep red, and I wonder if maybe his partners haven’t been quite as generous as they should’ve been. Pie shouldn’t be better than sex, even if it is full of sugar and chocolate.
AIDAN
This is precisely what I needed. Covey’s presence is calming, which makes no sense because Covey’s a hurricane. Every inch of this kitchen is covered in… something. Not all of it is identifiable.
“Can you grab the heavy cream?” He turns his head toward me for a second, his face in a tight smile. He’s still trying to figure out how to behave around me tonight. Honestly, I’m trying to figure it out, too. One minute I’m laughing, and the next, the weight of the afternoon threatens to crush me.
It takes me a few moments to rifle through the fridge and find the cream.
When I hand it to him, Covey studies me in a way that nearly undoes me.
I’m not sure anyone has looked at me that closely since I was a child and my parents were trying to figure out exactly what I’d been up to—which was usually whatever Covey had been up to.
“You sure you’re up for this? You can go home if you want.” It’s at least the fifth time he’s asked me that in the last hour.
“I-I’d prefer not to be alone right now.” I don’t remember deciding to come to Covey’s; I got in my car and drove straight here. It wasn’t until I knocked that I even remembered we were supposed to be baking.
“Okay. Do you want to chill on the couch? I could make you some tea or something?”
“Um… do you have hot chocolate?” I’m not much of a coffee person, which I know bugs people. I get a lot of questions about how I manage to survive without caffeine. I just… don’t like it. Both tea and coffee taste like dirt. Hot chocolate, on the other hand, is the perfect beverage.
“I’ve got just the thing.” The grin on his face should make me nervous—it’s Covey after all—but instead I find it soothing.
“And I’m still helping. I’m not useless.” I don’t think I could sit still if I wanted to. It gives me too much time to think. As long as I’m moving, I don’t have to examine my feelings. “Tell me what to do.”
“Why don’t you go take a shower? By the time you get out, the hot chocolate will be ready.
” Fuck, I bet I reek of sweat after all that running around.
I swear I drove to every playground within ten miles of the school, searching through various equipment to make sure she wasn’t stuck in a slide or something.
“You’re fine, I just think some warm water to wash away the day will do you good.
You can grab some sweats from my bottom drawer after. Then you’ll be more comfortable.”
And Covey can read my mind now. I manage to croak out a thank you before following Covey’s instructions and heading to the shower.
Everything is exactly as he said. There are plenty of towels in the linen closet and all the necessary items in the shower.
As soon as I step into the bathroom, I can tell why he sent me there.
I’m a hot mess. My face is blotchy and tear-streaked from my meltdown earlier.
There’s dirt around my hairline, and my hair is—well, hopeless is the word that comes to mind.
Worse, my eyes have a shell-shocked look that makes me barely recognizable, even to myself.
It’s a wonder he didn’t send me away sooner.
As soon as the water’s warm enough, I step in and let the spray ease away some of my tension. Covey got lucky with this place. The bathroom is roomy and has a rain shower head that’s tempting me to stay in here for hours or until the hot water runs out, whichever comes first.
Guilt sinks in as I remember Covey in the kitchen, making pies for my mom.
He’s picked up the task without any complaint.
Even though I know he’s tired, he spent the week picking out recipes, shopping for ingredients, and planning the baking schedule.
So far, all I’ve had to do is show up. A task I’m not doing great with at the moment.
With a sigh, I turn off the water and wrap myself in one of his fluffy blue towels.
I probably should’ve picked out some clothes first, so I didn’t have to roam his hallway practically naked.
I can hear him rustling around in the kitchen, so he’s not likely to walk in on me, but it still freaks me out a bit.
As promised, his bottom drawer is full of various sweatpants.
It’s no understatement to say that he must own dozens of them, most branded with names of ballet companies.
I find a pair with Capezio written down the side.
No idea what it means, but they’re a lovely shade of navy.
I worry that they might be too small, but they fit almost perfectly once I adjust the drawstring a bit, minus them being a touch short.
When I return, Covey looks me over and gives me a nod. I can’t help the blush that seems to spread over my whole body at his look of approval. Then he points me toward one of the kitchen table chairs and hands me a mug of the most decadent-looking hot chocolate I’ve ever seen.
Seriously. This thing is… I don’t have the words to explain it.
I inhale the scent of chocolate and cream, my mouth watering.
The first taste is indescribable. I’m not sure how he did it, but this must be the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had.
Which is saying something, because I’ve had more than I care to think about over the years.
“What is in this that makes it so good?”
Covey looks at me and motions with his finger that I have something on my nose. I brush my finger across it and find a bit of whipped cream, which I quickly suck into my mouth. There’s no way I’m going to let that go to waste. “Is there maple syrup in this?”
“A little. Is that okay? I can make some without.”
“Don’t you dare.” Covey’s eyes get so big I think they might pop out of his head. I’m not taking it back. Not when it’s the truth. I take a few more sips, letting the sweet warmth finish what the shower started, slowly bringing my body and mind back to center. “What do you need me to do?”
“Honestly? Nothing. Everything’s done. I’m waiting for this last pumpkin pie to finish baking so that I can put the chocolate pecan one in the oven. Once that’s done, we let it cool overnight.”
“We’re really doing this? Showing up for a big family Thanksgiving?”
“Are you having second thoughts?” He grabs a sponge and wipes down the counter.
It’s the least of the concerns, given the state of the kitchen, but I can see he needs something to keep his hands busy.
I rarely see this side of Covey. The one that’s not quite sure about his choices.
Usually, once he decides to do something, he barrels through until he gets what he wants or ends up in trouble.
No looking back; no questions. On this, he’s looking to me for reassurance, eyes pleading.
Do I think this is going to blow up in our faces?
Absolutely. Are things with our families way more complicated than we anticipated?
Yep. Am I terrified that tomorrow is going to be a disaster?
Absolutely. “Everything will be great.” I give him my best smile, the same one I give my students when they’re looking for comfort.
“How can it not be when we have so many delicious pies?”
“If you say so.” His words are heavy, but some of the tension in his shoulders disappears. “You don’t have to stay and wait. I know you’ve had a long day.”
The thought of going back to my quiet house, crawling into bed, and replaying the last several hours makes me nauseous. “Do I have to?” I ask quietly.
“What?”
“I don’t… I don’t want to be alone tonight.
” The terror of losing a student and the hours of panic and concern have left me raw and scared.
She might be back home safe and sound tonight, but I doubt the rest of us will sleep quite as easily.
It’s a heavy reminder of how fragile things are and how easy it is to lose someone.
“Then stay here,” he offers, without any hesitation. “It’ll make the morning easier, anyway.”
I’m not sure that’s true, but I’m happy to pretend it’s the real reason. “Thanks.”
“It’s been too long since we’ve had a slumber party.”