2. Three things
Chapter 2
Three things
LETTIE
A fter pushing my plate away, a contented sigh escapes me. “Mmm. That was so dang good. If it was on my head, my tongue would beat my brains out tryin’ to get to it.”
When he finishes snickering at me, Tomer dabs at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Mrs. Mason is a fantastic cook. She came in clutch today because I haven’t shopped for groceries in a while.”
“Mrs. Mason, huh? She asked me to call her Madeline.” I jokingly lift my chin to look down my nose at him. “Guess I’m pretty special.”
A crooked grin sneaks onto his face. “Nah. She tells everyone to call her that.”
His unexpected humor never fails to crack me up. Especially when his delivery is so effortlessly monotone.
As my chuckles diminish, I toss my napkin on my plate and pat my extremely full belly.
When Madeline and Boss Dad arrived at the office this morning, she brought in five casseroles, stashing them in the break room fridge for the people staying in the bunk rooms. She had one set aside for us since we’ve been staying there. All we had to do was pop it in the oven when we got home.
“Does she do this often?” My open palm gestures to the half-empty cheesy chicken casserole dish.
“Send dinner home for me?” He shakes his head. “Nope. First time. However, she has been known to make random bakery deliveries at the office. Her banana bread is the stuff of legend.”
Despite being stuffed to the point of exploding, my mouth waters.“And you’ve never brought any to me? Monster ! I thought you loved me.”
He puts his palms out in surrender. “It never makes it out of the office. They go feral for it. You might lose an arm if you don’t get your slice fast enough. Got to have a strategy. In and out operation.”
“You draw up a battle plan on your grease board, don’t you?”
He shakes his head aggressively as if I offended him. “Then it would be visible to the others, Lettie. First rule of banana bread warfare is never let the enemy know what to expect.”
“Oh, really? What about the first rule of banana bread fight club?”
His turquoise eyes nearly disappear when he narrows his lids to crescents, and his voice takes on a hint of menace. “We don’t talk about that.”
Giddy amusement undulates through my midsection until it breaks free of my mouth in a huge blast. His stoic mask breaks rapidly, and he joins me in laughter.
Eventually, the hilarity dries up, and my meal settles enough that it’s not painful to move, so I start clearing the table. He jumps up to help.
“Hold up, babe. One more bite.” I dive my fork in for another taste before he puts the lid on the casserole dish.
The delicious, savory goodness melts on my tongue.
“Mmm. I need this recipe. This stuff would have blown Melissa Schmidt’s Twice Baked Tater Casserole out of the water at the annual Climax Covered Dish Duel. If I ever go back there, I’m making this, and she can suck it.”
A long string of cheese refuses to cooperate, hanging onto my fork with the dedication of super glue. I chase it around with my mouth, weaving and swirling my tongue around the fork tines to get it all.
“Lettie, please stop,” Tomer grits out.
My wide eyes stray from the Herculean-strength cheese, landing on Tomer’s pained gaze. I lick my lips, getting the rest of that goodness in me. “Am I being gross? Sorry. You know how much I love good food. And for whatever reason, all my food trust issues are gone. I need to replenish my comfort-food-loving soul in case it doesn’t last.”
“You’re not being gross at all, sugar bear. Your moaning always kills me, but the damn cheese is too much.” His eyes and voice grow warmer. No , scratch that. They turn to molten lava. “You’re making me consider coating my dick in casserole. And that’s disgusting on all levels. But fuck . . . your mouth.” He drags his thumb over my lower lip.
Heavens to Betsy. Silly horn dog.
Yet I’m the one with a hyper sex drive?
“Fuck my mouth, huh? I’m not sure that’s a good idea after such a big meal. I might need a few hours before I can do that.”
“Like how many hours?” He feigns setting an alarm on his wristwatch. “Two? Three?”
Turning on my heel and fighting off a gut-busting chortle, I grab my cup from the counter. On the way into the living room, I chug the refreshing water. The casserole was loaded with not only cheese but butter and salt, leaving me parched.
Sweet baby Jesus in the manger . It’s dang delightful to drink iced water again. Did you hear that? I said water with ice. Ice is so underrated.
I love all the ice. Crushed ice. Cubed ice. Big ice. Small ice. Whatever that ice is with the hole in the middle. I’m a ho for good ice.
Dinner tonight was the first time I tried drinking from something other than a bottle. For the last two days, I’ve been working up to it. Initially, Tomer would open the bottle in front of me. Then I asked him to open them where I couldn’t see him. With no issues arising, he asked if I wanted to try drinking from a glass at dinner.
Remembering the shattered glass on the wall at my apartment, I suggested a cup instead.
And . . . victory . An icy, chilly, wondrous victory.
No real clue why the phobia is resolving so rapidly, but I’m not about to question a good thing. All I can assume is it had to do with my trust issues. I’ll bring it up during my video chat with Simone tomorrow.
“Ahh.” I release a satisfied and exceptionally quenched exhale. I bring the cup to my lips for another sip. I think I’ll use less salt when I make the casserole. “You coming, babe?” I go back for one last gulp.
“Soon, I hope. You never answered me. Was it two or three hours until your mouth is open for fucking?”
Damn . That’s funny.
With a mouth full of water, I’m only partially able to prevent a glorious spit take. Instead of a projectile stream, it sputters and dribbles down my chin. Tomer dashes over, probably thinking I’m choking. Knowing me, it was a solid probability.
Like the charming lady of high society I am, I spit the remaining water back into my cup, or else my prolonged laugh will send it sailing. With my mouth now empty, I’m free to crack up at Mr. Silly Pants . And I do. Unrestrained and boisterous.
He ambles closer, joining me for a bit of hysterics. Before I can wipe the dribble around my mouth, Tomer turns stone-cold serious, cups my cheeks, and licks the droplets off my chin.
He licks my chin.
With his tongue.
Jesus, Joseph, and Johnny Depp. That’s hot.
I’m simultaneously grossed out and turned on. How did he pull that off?
“Excuse me, sir? Are you my human napkin now?”
“I live to serve you.” He winks, grabs my cup, and dashes back into the kitchen.
A smidgen later, the hiss of the faucet running meets my ears, followed by the purr and clatter of the ice maker.Much to my delight, he quickly returns with a nice, clean, refilled cup of iced water.
So much ice.
I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart.
“Thank you, my lover.” I grab his hand and lead him to the couch. “I guess you do live to serve, huh? Is a service Dom a thing? Can we try that out?”
“Yes, there is such a thing. But it’s not what you’re thinking.”
“Bummer.” I shrug, puckering my lips and rolling my eyes. “I guess I’m stuck with you the way you are.”
Despite my snarky words, the look on my face likely reveals how positively smitten I am with him. He knows I’m just teasing.
And he loves my bratty side now. I do too. Although, I feel like being a good girl tonight. Let’s see how long that lasts. Five minutes? Ten?
Getting us comfy on the couch, he tucks me close to him and covers us with a blanket. When he picks up the remote off the armrest, I make grabby hands for it.
He jerks it out of my reach, clutching it to his chest. “Not a chance. You haven’t earned the privilege back yet.”
“Seriously?” I huff, jaw gaping.
“Violet Holt, your taste in television is hot garbage.”
I stick my tongue out at him because I’m nothing if not mature and classy. “I was considering being a good girl tonight, but you just blew it, mister.”
Not even five minutes of being good.
“And soon you’re going to blow it, right, sugar bear? Two hours, was it?”
He dead-ass said that. Straight face and everything.
My face, however, immediately crimps with laughter. I flop my head onto his lap, rolling over to look up at him. Who is this man with the one-liners tonight? If dry horny humor were a genre, he’d be the one to pen it.
Once I’ve composed myself, I run my fingertips over his scruffy jaw. “You’re certainly in a silly mood today. I love it.”
“That’s because I have everything I ever wanted.”
My heart clippity-clops its happy feet like a champion clogger at the state fair. “Everything, huh?”
Picking a show forgotten, he tosses the remote aside. While running his fingers through my hair with one hand, he caresses my upper stomach with the other. Back and forth, he rubs just below my breasts. His face is as content and peaceful as a sleepy lake at sunrise. Not a stitch of tension left.
Twinkling eyes scanning the ceiling, he clamps his teeth on his lower lip. A low hum rattles in his chest as he chews over something. Finally, he says, “I guess a few things are missing.”
“What are they? I’ll get them for you so you’re like this all the time.”
When his turquoise irises lock on me, I force a swallow because he’s the picture of joy. The feeling draws me in, bathing me in a sea of euphoria.
For a year, I thought I knew his version of happiness. I was wrong. So very, very wrong.
That damn lie was there, even if I didn’t know it. The dishonesty he felt forced to maintain kept his joy smothered, starving it of oxygen.
His hand travels up from my chest, settling on one side of my neck. “Sugar, you don’t know how purifying your words are to my soul. You say things like that with such casualness.” He shakes his head faintly, his tone barely containing his emotions. “As a child, the people who were supposed to love and care for me never asked me things like that. Even as an adult, others rarely ask me what I want or need. And you just do it. Without thinking about it, you simply do. Effortless as breathing. As if you want to make me happy.”
My eyes sting with a mixture of sorrowful and happy tears. “You deserve to be loved. You always did, and I’m sorry you didn’t get that for so long.”
He leans down and places a tiny kiss on the tip of my nose.“You can pick the show.”
“Hey now, mister. You won’t distract me that easily. My ADHD meds haven’t worn off yet.”
His chest rattles with a stifled laugh. “What?”
“What were the three things?”
His throat bobs with a swallow, the movement capturing my attention. Mmm . I love his neck. If I wasn’t so comfy on my back with a full belly, I’d move up there and lick it. But that will have to wait because I’m in a chicken cheesy casserole coma—the four Cs. Heh heh.
Some of the happiness leaches from his expression. Just a tad. “First thing I need is Lenkov dead or in prison for life.”
“Fair. And the second?”
“Fix things with your father. I’d like to talk to him without this mafia shit hanging over our heads. The last few days have been awkward. We’re able to work together, but it’s... different.”
His pain, where Big Al is concerned, is palpable, making my breath catch.
“There’s all this unresolved shit. We need to hash it out. I’m ready to get it over with. I’ve been carrying it around for so fucking long. It’s out there but unfinished. There’s just no fucking time right now.”
“Be patient, babe. He’s barely spoken to me, except for a wave when he sees me down the hall or a muttered greeting in passing. I get that you have a longer-standing relationship with him, and you’re anxious to repair it; however, I doubt he’s in the state of mind to deal with emotional shit right now. This doesn’t feel like the right time. Life has a way of working on its own schedule, though.”
“At least I’m not fired yet.”
“No black eyes either. So you’ve got that going for you.”
He runs the pads of his thumb over my cheek and jaw, then along the bottom of my lip. The tender adoration of his touch fills my heart and steadies all my thoughts.
“Do you think I have autism?” he asks out of nowhere.
And I mean completely out of nowhere.
There was nothing at all to signal this conversation shift.No blinker. No traffic light. No airport guy with the orange flashlight cone things.
My eyes do that cartoon thing where they stretch a foot away from my face, then snap back in place while a horn goes ah-oo-ga .
His laugh tells me my mental image of the cartoon eye jump isn’t entirely off base. “Sorry. I know that was random.”
“Ya think?” Chuckling, I blink a few times and try to steady my thoughts. “Let’s see. Do I think you have autism? Honest answer?”
He nods, eyes drawing in tight. “Of course.”
“Possibly,” I draw out the word, then bite my lip, hoping I wasn’t too blunt.
His face remains impassive, showing no sign of offense or disappointment in my answer. No happiness about it either.
My body craves more of a physical connection for this discussion. Rolling over, I angle myself toward him and wrap an arm around his side, reaching to his back. Since I still have my head in his lap, that puts my face very close to his crotch, but I have no objections. I’m quite comfortable here.
I give his waist a squeeze. “Where is this coming from?”
Looking blankly across the room, he stays silent for a beat. “You met Sue the other day at the office, right?”
“Yeah. Leo’s wife.”
He nods, still staring straight ahead. “She has autism. And last week, Leo said that I shared some of her traits.” His head slopes to one side. “He didn’t mean it in a bad way. But it got me thinking. Maybe he’s right.”
“And if he is?”
He brings his eyes back into focus and glances down at me. “I have no idea. Would it bother you?”
My belly jostles with a deep laugh. “Me? Bother me? No . What a hypocrite that would make me and my squirrel brain. I’d never judge you for something like that.”
The wrinkles around his mouth deepen as he works his tongue behind his closed lips. “Good.”
“If you’re curious, they have tests for autism. It could be something you ask about when you see the therapist.” I shrug up one shoulder and hit him with a saccharine smile. If I knew how to make doe-eyes, I’d do that too.
His reaction to the therapy topic has been mixed. I believe wholeheartedly that he’ll do it. I also know that if I don’t stay on top of him about it, he’ll procrastinate for as long as he can.
In a gentle whisper, I ask, “Why don’t you want to go to therapy, Tomer?”
It doesn’t take him long to offer an explanation. “Growing up, my father was... well, you know how he was. But he was extremely insistent that I act like a man. Don’t cry. Don’t show emotions. Shit like that.”
My gut sours. I hate that fucking man. I want to go up to South Carolina to piss all over his grave.
“And you think talking about feelings and stuff isn’t manly?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.”His palm scrapes over his scalp punishingly. “All my life, I did everything I could to avoid feeling. Going to therapy is the opposite of that. Something about it seems... wrong.”
“Do you avoid experiencing your feelings for me?”
“I tried at first. But not anymore.”
“Does it seem wrong to love me?”
“No. It’s the rightest thing I’ve ever felt.”
I’m glad I’m reclined, or I’d swoon. As it is, a fluttering sensation tickles my windpipe and dances up my spine.
Returning to my point, I say, “If you can love me without discomfort, then experiencing feelings doesn’t have to be bad. You accept it as part of you. Maybe it can be that way with therapy too. Start slow. Find the right person to talk to and see how it goes.”
“That’s logical.” Almost immediately, his body language warms into acceptance. “However, I don’t want to go to Redleg’s psychologist.”
“What?” My eyeballs only do a half-cartoon stretch thing this time. “Redleg has a psychologist?”
“Yeah. Not in-house. She’s contracted. We all have to go once a year.”
“Only once? Wow.” My eyes roll around my head so sharply I get dizzy. “That surely fixes all problems. Probably could cut it to once a decade.”
His laugh makes my nipples pebble. Being this close to him is firing up my horniness. Too bad this is such a great conversation. If I attack him tits first, he’ll stop talking. His mouth will be busy.
Dang it. Now I’m getting wet between my legs.
“It’s not ongoing therapy,” he clarifies. “It’s an annual evaluation. Think of it like a fitness for duty thing.”
“Oh, I see. Like a mental health check-in.”
“Right.” His relaxed exhale vibrates his lips adorably. “She’s been asking me to set up regular sessions for years now. I keep blowing her off because whenever we meet, I inevitably end up with nightmares that last for a few nights after.”
A sad sigh leaves him, traveling to my heart and squeezing it painfully.
I hate how he hurts because of his fucking father. Maybe later, I’ll check flight prices, and we can both piss on his grave. After we stop the mafia, of course.
“Nightmares like you had that night at my apartment a while ago?”
“Yes.” Tendrils of sorrow darken his tone.
“Do you want to tell me about the dream? Maybe it would help to get it out. No pressure, but if you want to talk about it, I’ll listen and hug you through it.”
“Sweet sugar bear.” He clicks his tongue, gazing at me with blatant adoration. “You’re the fresh air I never knew I needed to breathe.”
Messing with him a bit, I tease, “Fresh air? Pshaw . You can do better than that.”
“A challenge, huh?”
“Maybe we can save that for another time. I still haven’t recovered from how swoony you were the other day in my room at the shelter.”
His head kicks back in a slight roll. “I thought I botched that.”
“Maybe you do have autism.” My face lights up in jest, smile and eyes widening. “Because the way I attacked you afterward should have been a big, fat nonverbal cue of how much you didn’t botch it.”
Silence settles pleasantly like a perfect spring day in a meadow.
“Sue has a therapist she wants me to see,” he offers.
“Oh?”
“Lettie, would you go with me?”
Well, box my peanuts .
Everything he says lately makes me love him more.
“I would absolutely go with you.”
“You will?”
“Of course, silly. You’re my person. If you need something, I’ll give it to you eagerly so long as it’s in my power to give.”
“Can I tell you the third thing now?”
My mind rewinds, quickly searching for what he’s talking about. Ah yes . The three things he needs so he has everything conversation.
I flash him a toothy smile, letting my eyes dance. “Yes, please.”
His chest expands sharply with his inhales, and his eyes darken. “Those manners, Lettie.”Nibbling his lip, he intensifies his hold on my neck.
And I flood the couch.
We might need to consider one of those plastic sofa covers like my grandma—well, great- grandma—had back in Climax. That couch was hideous. The stuff of nightmares. Big orange and brown swirls on a booger yellow-green base. Blech.
“Why do my manners turn you on?”
“I wish I knew. I just fucking love them. Then again... what about you doesn’t turn me on?”He pretends to think, scratching his chin and pursing his lips. “Only thing that comes to mind is your horrible choices in what we watch.”
“Are we gonna keep flirting, or are you going to tell me the third thing you want? I can’t solve either of the other two, so I’m really hoping this one is something I can deliver.”
I wait expectantly for him to answer. As he caresses me lovingly and looks at me with reverence, I could swear a pixie sets off sparkles behind his eyes.
“You can definitely give me the last thing. In fact, you’re the only one who can.”
With that declaration, I vault upward. I need to see him head-on for whatever this is. Flutters of happiness electrify my skin.
On my knees, I rest my tush on my heels and fold my hands in my lap. When he doesn’t answer immediately, I grumble under my breath and scooch closer. “Tell me, please.”
Reaching toward my waist without warning, he quickly drags me onto his lap. It makes me giggle louder than that time I sprayed my slushie all over Kelly Smitty’s chest at the spring formal when Stella told me a joke about horse shit. It was memorable, albeit disgusting. And I was cackling then as brightly as I am now.
“Easy, caveman. You can’t handle the merchandise all willy-nilly.”
“Grunt. Snort. My Woman. Sit. Lap. Now. Grunt.”
“Who are you?” I ask between gasping laughs.
He’s been playful before. We’ve had lots of laughs in our months together. After all, I’m like... super fun to be around.
Yet I’ve never seen him overflowing with joy like this. I could die happy now.
“Oh, I’m merely a man hopelessly in love with his boss’s daughter.”
I latch my hands behind his neck. “Hopelessly, huh? That sounds serious.”
“It’s a terminal condition, sadly.”
“Stop it.” I swat his chest. “Don’t joke about that.”
He widens his eyes and lets his head flop to one side. “Sorry. Must be the autism.”
A barking laugh erupts from the back of my throat. “ Staaahp .”
When we both grow serious, he rakes his eyes all over me. My skin heats in the wake of his penetrating gaze.
I make my brows dance. “The third thing, please. I’m waiting.”
“Lettie, I want to marry you. Have babies with you. As many as you want. And a fucking dog. A black one. A damn picket fence too. I want it all with you.”
My breath evaporates, and a slight gasp leaves me as I try to cling to the last bit of oxygen in the room.
But he’s not finished.
“Never want to sleep without you. I want to eat dinner with you every night for the rest of my life. Breakfast too. I want to hear all your silly nonsense stories. Go down every rabbit hole. Before I fall asleep each night, your voice should be the last thing I hear. And when I wake up, it’ll be the first. I want to watch you singing to our babies and listen to you humming to music only you can hear. I want to tend to all your klutzy injuries. I’ll get us a frequent customer membership to the urgent care to expedite our time there.” He barely holds back a laugh. “I want to grow old with you, which I’ll achieve first, sadly.” He clears his throat, his voice sobering. “Sugar bear, I want to give you the world and everything in it. I want everything with you.”
Did we get inside a tilt-a-whirl? Why is the room spinning?
“You do?” My voice cracks. “You want all that? With me?”
“Yes, ma’am. Then I would absolutely have it all.” His voice is steady and smooth but not monotone or flat like the Tomer of old. It’s rich with confidence and unwavering certainty. “I can’t imagine anything better. But only if it’s what you want too.”
For the first time in days, there’s a hint of vulnerability in his tone.
Not sure which of us moves our lips closer together. We’re like magnets, and I’m powerless to resist the pull. Not that I’d even try.
My fingertips dig into his shoulders, then trail back up to his nape to tease the short fuzz at his hairline.
Instead of kissing, we simply exist.
Together.
The space between us is thinner than a sheet of paper. His breath fans over my lips, and our heartbeats sync up.
The first three words that fly out of my mouth are even more beautiful than his heartfelt declaration.
“I like dogs.”
Sometimes I amaze myself. Perhaps I’m the cavewoman to his caveman.
Lettie know words good. Words easy for Lettie.
His eyes sparkle with amusement. “That’s good news, sugar.”
Bless his heart. He’s trying not to laugh in my face. Literally. ’Cause our faces are still mashed together.
“I’m sorry. You broke my brain. I don’t know words anymore.”
His expression changes gradually. The smile starts in his eyes, then tugs at his cheeks. His mouth is the last part of his face to surge upward. I pull back a few inches to take it all in at once. Mesmerizing.
“I don’t need words, sweetness. The fact that you’re still on my lap and haven’t run screaming from the room is good enough for me.” He gives me the softest peck, just a flutter of his lips on mine. “For now.”
“I love you, babe.” I lick my lips, nervous excitement and adoration blasting every cell. “I can say that, at least. And yes . I can say yes too. So yes. I accept. I want all that.”
“I’m not proposing now. You deserve something way better than my couch after a meal I didn’t even cook for you.”
The disappointment yanks my shoulders and the corners of my mouth down before I can stop it. “Oh. Okay.”
“I have to take care of the first two things before I can have the third.”
“I see. I see.” I nod approximately twenty-two-hundred times while frantically grasping for a shred of composure after he rendered me brain-dead. “That makes sense.”
“Lettie, I can’t very well propose until I get your father’s permission. And he’s not exactly in the mood to give that now. Certainly not to me.”
“Very funny.” My smirk and eye roll combination is on point, if I do say so myself. I don’t even need a mirror to tell you that.
“Oh!” His face perks up like he got struck with a memory or took a gong to the head. “I do have something else, though.” He squeezes my hips. “Hop up for a second.”
My mouth stays fastened shut while I shuffle off his lap. If I speak, I’ll continue embarrassing myself, accepting nonexistent proposals.
When he darts into his bedroom, which I guess is ours now, I follow. It’s not like I’ve suddenly mastered my ability to resist impulsivity.
As I enter the room, he comes out of his closet with a small, flat box in his hand. A purple silky ribbon tied in a bow around it. “Please sit, sugar.” He tips his chin toward the bed.
My feet attempt to lurch me in that direction like a good girl, but my vision has locked on what’s in his hands. “What’s that?”
His sexy smile spreads until it pulls at his cheeks. “Sit, and I’ll show you.”
I roll my eyes with extra flamboyance, feigning irritation. “Bossy.”
With an open palm, he smacks my ass when I slip past him.
“Hey,” I squeal, my hands covering my butt cheeks.
Although I attempt to shoot him a glare, it’s probably more like a confused baby koala face. I’m too damn sappy for him to be a brat right now.
Lowering to the edge of the bed, I wait like a good girl.
And then my jaw drops to the floor, bounces back up, and smacks me right between the eyes.
He is kneeling.
What the hell is he trying to do to me tonight?
“Babe, if you aren’t about to propose, then get off your knees. My heart can only take so much. It’s firing warning shots all over the place.” I place both hands on my chest. “It’s like someone was smoking too close to a 4th of July fireworks tent inside here.”
He doesn’t get up.
I’m so confused. Working title for act three of my autobiography.