Chapter 10 #2
An hour and a half later, most of the staff had left, and only the safety lights were on. Decker added brown sugar to the bowl of flour. Then, he measured sliced almonds.
When he turned to get the butter from the refrigerator, his boot caught on the stainless-steel cabinet door. Pain flashed up his leg—sharp enough to steal his breath. He stumbled, the red quarry tiles rushing up at him, and he reached out to catch himself and grabbed nothing but air.
A body stepped directly into his path of doom. His senses flooded with honeysuckle and the faintest hint of lemon.
Willa.
Instantly, he relaxed.
She let out a huff of air but braced her bare feet and stood steady. “You okay?”
Once he regained his stability, he pulled away. “Shit. Sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“Not at all.” She surveyed the dusting of flour, the splats of strawberry and rhubarb filling, and opened packages scattered across the steel countertop. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m baking a pie.” Man, she looked pretty. She’d washed off her wedding makeup, and her skin looked clean and luminous. Her normally sleek hair had tangled from sleep, and her silky pajamas draped over lush breasts and a full, peach-shaped ass.
“I don’t understand.” Her voice ripped through his haze of lust. “You’re baking? At eleven-thirty at night?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” He needed to get the crumble topping done, so he headed to the refrigerator.
“So you thought you’d just whip up a pie?”
“It’s how I unwind.” He pulled out the stick of butter and grabbed a knife.
Standing at his side, she watched him cut it into small chunks. “But you don’t eat refined sugar.”
“No, but everyone else does.”
“Wait, who are you giving the pie to?” she asked.
“Well, I wanted to make a mud pie for you and Birdie—”
“Mud pie?” Her eyes rounded.
“But the delivery guy couldn’t find the right chocolate, and I’m not using a shit brand, so I’m making strawberry-rhubarb instead. If you don’t like it, I can give it to my dad. Not everyone wants a vegetable in their dessert, but my brothers’ll eat anything.”
“I love mud pie,” she said excitedly.
Which meant he’d definitely make her one.
Oh, wait. I won’t be here.
Right.
That shouldn’t have landed so hard, considering leaving had always been the plan.
She swiped a finger in the bowl, licking off the filling. “So, how long have you been doing this pie-baking thing?” Her cheeks sucked in.
Oh, hell. “Since I was a kid.” To keep from imagining his dick in her mouth, he plunged his hands into the dry mixture and kneaded the butter into it.
“Explain.” She sounded almost accusatory, and it made him smile.
“Well, funny enough, it happened during Wild West Days.” Actually, they were coming up on the three-day event that took place every July in Calamity.
The whole town was preparing for it. “I got separated from my family during the parade—I must’ve been nine or ten.
My dad always said if you get lost, stay put.
It was the only way he’d be able to find us, so I parked my ass on a bench in the town square and waited.
I was watching all the chaos around me when this woman sat down next to me.
She was nice, asking me questions.” He didn’t remember much about her.
He hadn’t been very interested in talking to an old lady.
Mostly, he’d been scared. Wild West Days was a huge draw for summer tourists. All about reenacting the past, it had staged shootouts, live concerts, stagecoach rides… It was loud, crowded, and loads of fun—only not so much for a lost kid.
“And she sat with you till your dad found you and bought you a slice of pie?”
“That’s so basic,” he teased. “My story’s way better than that.”
“And you’re anything but basic.”
“Apparently, because she had a gift for me.”
“Really? Was it in the form of candy? Was she missing her puppy?”
He laughed. “Nope.” But his smile faded when he realized something. “You know what’s funny? I’ve never shared this story with anyone before.”
“Because you’d get in trouble for taking candy from a stranger?” She shifted her weight, pressing her hip to the counter.
“No. Because the lady told me not to. She said it was special—that it was just for me.”
“Well, now I’m dying to know what it was.”
“It was a recipe book.”
“You’re telling me some old lady walks around with recipe books and hands them out to little kids?”
“It wasn’t like that. It was handmade.” It had a cloth cover—navy—with flour embedded in the fabric. The spine was broken, so the pages were loose. It was obviously well-used, with its yellowed pages smeared with jam and butter so old it had turned translucent.
It had made him feel special that she’d given him something as well-loved as that.
“That’s so interesting.” She took another swipe of the filling in the metal bowl. “So, after all this time of never telling anyone, why me? Why tonight?” she asked softly, as if afraid to show how much it meant to her.
Which only reinforced his desire to tell her. “Because I trust you.” He pulled the pie out of the oven to sprinkle the crumb for the rest of the bake. She didn’t know how important that was to him. He had very few people in his circle.
When he closed the oven, he came back to clean his mess and found her looking soft and warm. “Thank you.”
It reminded him of the honeymoon suite, the scent of roses, and the feel of their tongues tangling, the press of her restless body against him. The quiet hum of appliances and the low lights casting shadows only drew him deeper into the memory.
He reached for her, his hand cupping her cheek, her silky hair brushing his fingers. Her breathing changed, turned shallow, and her nipples hardened. The heat in her eyes kicked desire into a raging—
A door clicked shut, and a woman shuffled into the kitchen. “Oh. Sorry. Everything okay?”
“Yep.” Willa stepped sideways, away from his touch. “We’re baking a pie.”
“A pie, huh? Well, it sure smells good.” The woman was illuminated by the open refrigerator as she smiled at Willa. “Your dad likes to handle Mrs. Archer’s requests, but I didn’t want to wake him. That man works too hard.”
“Oh, no. What does she want now?” Willa asked.
“Warm milk with honey. She can’t sleep.” The woman poured milk into a china teacup. She lifted it. “Only the fancy stuff for her.” She added a squirt of honey and stuck it in the microwave. Two minutes later, she set it on a saucer and headed out of the kitchen. “‘Night.”
“Wait.” Willa dashed into the pantry and came out with four wafer-thin cookies. She arranged them around the saucer. “There.” She smiled. “Night, Sylvie.”
By the time she came back, he’d cleaned the counter and filled the bowl with water to soak. “Cookies, huh?”
“She’s one of our best guests.”
“How do we define best?” he asked.
“She used to be my aunt.” How did she begin to explain? “She divorced my dad’s brother—”
“Your uncle?”
“I mean, yes. Technically. But I hardly know him.” She didn’t think of him as family.
“He and my dad stopped talking before I was born, so I’ve never even met my cousins.
But anyhow, she stays here whenever she’s in town.
Dad insists on handling her requests himself because she can be pretty demanding, but I just think she’s lonely.
Anyhow, back to the recipe book. I want to know how an old woman just happened to give something she’d spent her life working on to a boy in a park. ”
Fair question. “I don’t remember much about the conversation, but I told her what it was like growing up in a bike club, and she said something about middle children feeling invisible. And then she reached into her bag and pulled it out.”
“But why would she give you her recipes?”
He’d wondered about that himself. “They weren’t hers. They were her daughter’s.”
“She gave you her daughter’s handwritten recipes? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.” He’d come this far. He supposed he should tell her the whole story.
“Listen, I don’t want to give the wrong impression about my dad, okay?
But when we got to the club, he had four kids and no income.
He was busting his butt to get us on solid ground.
But it meant…” This should be embarrassing to talk about, which was why he’d only ever done it once with the old lady, but Willa made it easy.
“I was hungry a lot. My clothes didn’t fit. I just…didn’t get a lot of attention.”
“Decker.” Two syllables had never held such warmth and compassion.
“And I told her about it.” It was just an echo now, but he could feel shame heat his cheeks and the back of his neck. “I don’t know why.” No, he did. She’d been so…maternal. So concerned. She’d drawn it all out of him.
“I had no idea.” She touched his arm. “You all seem so strong…so confident. I never would’ve guessed how much you’ve been through.”
He tore off strips of aluminum foil so he could protect the ring of crust he’d shaped into little sunflowers.
“When she gave it to me, she said if I learned how to cook, I’d never go hungry again.
Or something like that. I don’t remember.
And I think I kept it a secret because she knew the most shameful thing about me.
I didn’t want to have to explain it to anybody. ”
“That’s a beautiful gift.”
He opened the oven and formed a protective barrier around the edge of his pie.
“So, was it all pie recipes?”
“No, I tried the other things, but I like making pies the best.”
“Does the world know you’re a pie-baking quarterback?”
“Sure. Every holiday, I give them to my O-line, the coaches, training staff, equipment guys—everyone who keeps me upright and in one piece."
“That’s so nice of you. Do they appreciate it?”
He laughed at the hesitation in her tone. “That’s not all they get. I give my offensive line vacations for their families—because the wives and kids have everything to do with a player’s mental well-being.” A vacation was the least he could do to show his gratitude.
“That’s very thoughtful. It’s funny isn’t it, how the press gets hold of Aurora’s story but not the vacations you give your teammates?”
“Comes with the territory.” He poured dish soap on a sponge and turned on the faucet.
“So this is your version of yoga, huh? I like it.” She brought him the rolling pin and the butcher block cutting board. “You must be freaking out.”
“Just waiting for the results to come in.”
“It’s scary, huh?”
“It’s a situation I’ll deal with.”
“Well, I mean, it’s a child.” She stood close. “Not a situation.”
“I know that. And I’ll take care of her.”
“If she’s yours.”
He started scrubbing the dough off the cutting board. “Mm-hmm.”
“What does ‘mm-hmm’ mean?”
“It means I’ll make sure her needs are met.”
“Yeah, but it sounds like you mean whether she’s yours or not.”
He set the board in the drying rack.
Willa slammed the faucet off. “Look me in the eyes. Are you saying you’ll provide for a child who isn’t yours?”
“Cady manages a restaurant, and her husband’s an EMT.
They live in a two-bedroom apartment. If they adopt Birdie at the same time they have their first child, they’re going to need help.
” He remembered the clutch of the roll in Birdie’s little hand, the crumb on her upper lip. “And I don’t like her going hungry.”
“Who says she’s hungry?”
“I saw her steal food, okay? A healthy kid who has her needs met wouldn’t be hiding under a table eating a fuckin’ roll. Whether she’s mine or not, I can make sure she’s taken care of.”
“Decker McKenna, you…” She swallowed, looking away. “You know, you’re a really nice guy.”
He turned the faucet back on to wash the knives and spoons. “I thought I was a grumpy son of a bitch?”
“I never said that, but they’re not mutually exclusive. You can be grumpy and have a big heart.” Grabbing a clean dish towel, she reached for the cutting board at the same moment he set the serving spoon down.
The sizzle at the point of contact where their hands touched had him jerking away, and the spoon hit the side of the metal counter. The clatter hurt his ears. “Fuck.” He regretted his reaction instantly. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. You’re doing this to de-stress. You don’t need me bombarding you with questions.” She set the towel down. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
It was good she was leaving. She shook him up. Destabilized him.
And yet, every step she took away from him cranked his stress levels higher.
It didn’t make sense.
If you lined up my attributes, first to last, number one would be self-discipline.
So, why the hell is her name coming out of my mouth right now? “Willa.”
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her hand on the rail.
“Pie’s almost done.” He hadn’t planned to say that. “If you want to try it.”
What is wrong with you?
Let her go.
You don’t need this shit right now.
He grabbed the scrub brush to clean the whisk. “Or you can have it tomorrow. Up to you.”