Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Brooks
There are no appointments today. Not one.
I didn't plan it that way. I've been making sure to have at least one appointment that takes me out of the house since I brought Laz home.
I don't want to crowd him or overwhelm him with my constant presence.
If I'm honest with myself, that's only part of it.
I don't want to feel like I'm pushing myself on him, which is a different thing.
Right alongside that is the fact that I will sit in this house with his scent and the sound of him and dwell over every single thing.
Am I giving him enough room? Am I giving him too much room?
Does he even want to be here? That's the big one.
He didn't really get a choice in that. I don't think he's had a choice with a lot of things for a long while now, and I just took another one.
I don't feel bad about it, either. I'd do it again a hundred times.
I just don't want him to feel trapped with me.
Not that I could let him go at this point. Oh, I probably could if I had to; I did it before. But I don't want to. Besides, we have a bond now, so maybe that could isn't as accurate as I think it is. It wouldn't matter anyway. Laz is mine. I won't be letting him go.
None of this solves the mystery of my distinct lack of appointments today. I know I had a meeting with someone this afternoon. I remember seeing it on the weekly summary.
“Mrs. Richards,” I call. Maybe someone canceled something, and she took the call from the house line and just forgot to tell me.
“You'll have to come to me or yell,” she calls back from the kitchen.
Mrs. Richards doesn't make a mess in the kitchen when she's baking. Everything stays tidy and organized and efficient when she bakes. But Laz is helping her today, so the kitchen is in a state of chaos when I freeze in the doorway. “This is an unfair turn of events.”
She winks at me. “This is nothing compared to the mess you'd make. He's learning how to use the mixer.”
I lean against the frame and cross my arms to fully take in the scene.
Flour everywhere. Eggshells everywhere. Ingredients and small bowls everywhere.
With Laz in the center of all of it, scowling at the mixer.
He was never what anyone would call domestic, and I suppose that hasn't changed over the years.
“What are we making today?” I ask.
“A mess,” Laz answers.
I laugh, and Mrs. Richards raises her motherly brow to shut me up.
“You're learning,” she says gently. “It won't be like this next time.”
“Next time?” he scoffs. “This is a one-time deal. The kitchen can't handle a next time.”
“Nonsense,” she tuts. “All cooks and bakers make messes. It's part of the gig. You get better at it over time, but there will always be messes and mistakes. You will always be learning and improving.”
“That's not what you said to me,” I say, smirking. I know what she's doing, and I love her for it.
Las looks away from the traitorous mixer with raised brows. “What did she say to you?”
“She told me to stay the hell out of her kitchen.”
Laz laughs. His real laugh, not the buttoned-up version that kept him safe from himself and whatever else. The good one.
“I suppose you've come to ask about your schedule?” Mrs. Richards asks, wiping her hands on her apron.
I nod.
“It's better to ask for forgiveness than permission sometimes,” she says, crossing her arms. “I took a liberty or two.”
“How many liberties?”
“Four,” she answers. “You need a break. Appointments every single day for almost a month. You need a day to relax. I didn't rearrange anything important.”
“That appointment this afternoon could have been important,” I counter.
“Brooks Lockwood,” she says, moving a hand to her hip. “You don't even know what it was or who it was with.”
“Ohhh, you're in trouble,” Laz jokingly sings.
This is what normal is supposed to feel like. This is what family is supposed to feel like. A destroyed kitchen, a housekeeper who takes liberties and scolds you, and a flour-covered Omega. This is good.
“Well,” I sigh, taking a step into the kitchen and unbuttoning the cuffs of my sleeves to roll them up. “If I have nothing to do today and the kitchen is already in disarray, I might as well learn how to use the mixer, too.”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Richards says. “You'll just be tempted to try when I'm not here to supervise. You can sit at the table and watch and help with the icing when it's time.”
That does sound like the safest plan.
The morning is spent watching Laz learn how to use various kitchen appliances and poorly spreading purple icing on cookies that are somehow both burnt and undercooked.
I've smiled so much that my cheeks have started to ache.
It's astounding, really. Just a few weeks ago I was wallowing in worry and dark thoughts, and now I'm sitting in a bright kitchen that smells like sugar.
“Okay, well, you boys have made a big enough mess in here. Why don't you go find something else to do while I clean up?”
Laz shakes his head, still smiling. “No, that's not fair to you. I'm cleaning up. You go find something else to do.”
That's actually an excellent plan. “Yes, we'll clean up. Hey, I know. I have a standing reservation at Lenore's. Go round up your cantankerous husband and make an afternoon of it.”
Mrs. Richards looks out the window as if she can see whatever her husband is puttering around with on the grounds. “He hates going to town.”
“I could have offered my spot at The Top Shelf.”
She laughs. “I'll never get him into the city.”
“I know,” I chuckle. “That's why I said Lenore's.”
Laz and I finally convince her to leave the kitchen to us so she can drag her husband to an early dinner.
He does most of the cleaning, though. He's always been like that.
Once he starts a task, it doesn't take him long to take it over.
I spend the last stretch of the job just sitting at the table, making small talk and watching him.
He dries the last bowl and puts it away, then leans against the counter. “Now what?”
“What do you want to do? My day is wide open.”
He stifles a yawn and glances in the direction of the den.
“You want to sit in front of the television and disassociate for a while?” I ask. “I've got all the channels.”
He grins at me, and I follow him down the hall.
I let him choose what we watch, and I am in no way surprised when he picks the most ludicrous daytime drama I've ever seen.
I am even less surprised to discover that he's well aware of the storyline.
I roll my eyes and settle in for an afternoon of campy romantic shenanigans.
I don't bother trying to keep up with which person kissed who or why it's such a huge plot point.
One episode turns into the next until it's a marathon. Laz started out sitting on the far end of the couch, but as the hours passed, he’s gotten closer and closer as he relaxed.
Now he's leaning against my side, and I've worked up the nerve to put my arm around him.
It's funny. He wears my mark. I know what he tastes like. But holding him gives me butterflies.
“Is this okay?” he asks, breaking a long stretch of not talking.
“Definitely.” I pull him a little closer to emphasize how okay it is.
“We're going backwards.”
I turn my head to brush my lips against his hair. “Only a little.”
“I like this, Brooks.”
“Me too.”
An evening routine forms over the next few days.
For the last few hours of the day, before we go to our separate bedrooms, we sit on the couch and watch trash TV.
I tried to make him watch a documentary on giraffes, but that lasted all of twelve minutes before he fell asleep with his head on my lap.
I didn't mind. It's not about whatever plays on the television; it's about being with each other and getting comfortable in the same space.
Part of the reason I tried to stay so busy and tried to stay away is because I didn't know how Laz was going to feel.
I don't know how people react to sobriety after years of being under the influence of something, and Laz spent years in the haze of false heats.
Before he left me, he was always so hypersexual.
I never knew if it stemmed from a need for attention or just a need for extra stimulation, but I did my best to oblige him.
I did a fairly decent job keeping up with him until he started taking the heat-inducing drugs.
He was insatiable all on his own, but with the drugs nothing was ever enough.
I could never hold him enough. I could never touch him enough.
One of the worst, and most ridiculous, bouts of enraged sorrow he experienced with me was when I couldn't keep him knotted for days at a time.
His chemical-addled brain couldn't understand the concept of a rebound period, and he was furious.
I thought he might still be the same now.
I've done research; I know how the drug works.
The Omega system behaves differently with prolonged exposure to hormonal tampering.
I was afraid of what would happen if he wanted that sort of attention before his medical team agreed that it was safe.
The last thing I want to do is throw Laz into a decline because I refused to turn him down. Because I wouldn't.
Well... maybe I would. I would be sick over the risk, but I don't know if I could actually refuse him if he was begging for relief.
I have never been able to refuse him. And that's exactly why I was trying to make myself scarce.
But the bond we have makes it nearly impossible for me to be away for too long.
I know he feels uneasy if I'm gone for too long.
He's been very vocal about that. I just don't want to make anything worse for him.