Chapter 7
Meg
Ipractically run out of the pantry, hot and flustered, and feeling far too vulnerable.
Hands thrust under the spray, I wash up before I dance to the oven, flick off the timer and grab the pies before they burn.
All the while, my mind reels at the speed of a bullet train.
What the fuck was that?
Besides the hottest push-pull of my life.
I thought it was going to be a simple, searing-hot wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am moment.
But something flipped. Maybe it was when I let him take control, or when I decided I wanted to let him fuck me bare.
Somehow, it all moved from hot to hotter, from filthy need to something I don’t feel at all prepared for.
It’s all that talk of Thanksgiving, I reason. Talk about family and connecting, gratitude and emotional memories baked into food.
But my eyes catch on the burst of color blooming in a bucket. The purple and yellow flowers he’d come in clutching. And I feel raw all over again.
When Alexei emerges, hands in his pockets and his expression carefully shielded, I don’t know what to think. Thankfully, he spares me from having to say anything because he gets back to work scrubbing out equipment without me even having to ask.
We work together in silence while pressure builds in my chest.
The quiet isn’t awkward, but it’s not exactly comfortable either because I keep stealing glances at him and wondering what’s brewing between us. Was it a one-time thing? Did I even want it to be a one-time thing?
It takes two seconds for my brain to spit out an answer.
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
Then, I blurt out, “I feel like things got really hot, really fast.”
Great. Well done, Meg. Way to let the man know you’ve got zero chill.
He glances over, brown eyes doing that puppy-dog thing that twists up my insides.
“Does it bother you?”
“Yes! No. Maybe.” I slide the pies onto the cooling rack one by one, staring hard at their perfect surfaces, their decorative pastry leaves Alexei punched out of dough for me. “I’ve been alone a long time, Alexei. I lost both my parents when I was a teenager, and since then, I just… work.”
“So, what are you saying?” His brow creases and he looks a little hurt. “That it was a mistake? You and me?”
“No! I don’t know what I’m saying.” I huff out a huge breath. “I’m just… rattled right now.”
“Because of me,” he says, arms folding over his muscled chest. “Because you know, like I know, this wasn’t just a hit it and quit it hookup.”
My fingers tremble as I set the final pie on the cooling rack.
“Maybe,” I mutter, my nerves on edge. “You—like your puck—came out of nowhere, you know?”
“For the record, you came out of nowhere for me, too.”
I scan the room, looking anywhere but at him as I do a quick count.
Twenty-four pies, done and dusted.
Plus six spare in case of emergency.
But I don’t notice him draw close until I turn and smack right into him. His arms wrap around me, steadying me, cradling me close.
“Meg… take a breath with me.” He reaches for my hand, lays it on his chest. Nudging my face up so my gaze locks onto his again, he inhales, exhales. Waits for me to do the same.
And to humor him, I do it.
In. Out. In. Out.
Until the huge, gulping breaths steady my heart in lock-step with his.
It’s so fucking sweet, I’m spiraling.
“You scare me,” I whisper. “This scares me.”
“Because it feels real.”
It’s not a question, and I hate that he can see past my smart-ass boss bitch veneer. That he can bring out the kind of vulnerability in me that makes me feel so damn exposed. Open to love, to loss, to pain, to pleasure.
He brushes his thumb over my lower lip, mouth quirking up.
“It’s real for me, too, you know. I don’t think I understood this whole Thanksgiving thing until I met you.
But taking a moment to appreciate the people in your life and setting aside time to make memories with them?
That, I can understand.” He slides a stray strand of my hair over one ear.
“And this year, maybe I have someone to be thankful for, yeah?”
My eyes flare a little as I search his eyes. “What are you saying, Aslanov? You’re wanting to stick around for more of this hot mess?”
“I’m saying I’d have a second helping, or four.” He laughs. The sound of it slides over me and settles low in my belly with the warmth and belonging I associate with comfort food.
So when he dips his head low for another kiss—this one soft and sweet, and so tender it takes root somewhere deep in my heart—I kiss him right back, pouring all the terrifying, fragile feelings I have into it.
And when we come up for air, I glance around my little pie empire and realize I couldn’t have made tonight happen without him. It would’ve been more chaotic, more stressful, and a helluva lot less fun.
So when my gaze falls to the fork on the floor and the unfinished pie on the counter, I turn back to him and curl my fingers into his flannel.
“If you think you might be ready for a full-on Thanksgiving celebration, there’s space at my cousin’s table.
My cousin puts on a crazy good spread, and naturally, I’m on the hook to bring the dessert.
It’s what my family was always responsible for.
That’s how all this got started,” I gesture around me to indicate Crust & Crumble, “and we’ve got room for one more. ”
His eyebrows lift. “Room enough for a big boy in a tiny space?”
I grin and wrap my arms around his waist. “Well, only if you’re a good boy.”
Then, he barks out a laugh and I join in, feeling a lot less lonely than I usually do at Thanksgiving.