Chapter Twenty-One #2
He looked down at the vegetables and then back at her. “Those are eggplants.”
“No, they’re aubergines.”
“Pretty sure they’re eggplants, darlin’.”
“And I’m completely sure they’re aubergines.”
He folded his arms. “Want me to look it up?”
“There’s no need. I already know I’m right.”
He laughed. “This from the woman who told me Americans mangled the English language.”
“We did establish that, yes.”
“No, you established it. I never agreed.”
She picked up one of the aubergines—or eggplants, as any sane human being would call them—and held it out to him. “Whatever ridiculous name you insist on giving it, I think we should bake it.”
He took it from her. “Fine by me. Just don’t expect me to start calling it an aubergine.”
“I wouldn’t dream of trying to improve you that much in one afternoon.”
He stared at her, and she smiled sweetly and reached for the other one. Yeah, no two ways about it—he loved hanging out at the house with her.
~ ~ ~
Upstairs, Bea took the garlic grater from the inside pocket of her suitcase.
Of course, she knew exactly where it was; she’d known all along.
She’d packed it carefully between two pairs of thick woolly socks she hoped she wouldn’t need until winter but had brought anyway because they were comfortable.
She unwrapped the little ceramic dish and looked down at it, feeling faintly ridiculous.
She could hardly admit to Blane that she’d never really intended to use it—she was going to get another one for that.
Her plan had been to keep this one as a sort of souvenir, something she could put on one of the shelves in the living room where she would see it often.
It was sentimental and silly, and she knew that, but Blane had bought it for her.
She closed her hand around it. She’d imagined smiling every time she saw it because it would remind her that he had really been here, that these weeks together had actually happened.
She was already afraid that, as time went by, the edges of it might blur and she would start to wonder whether she’d made too much of it all in her head, whether Blane and everything they’d shared here had somehow become more like a lovely dream than something that had really belonged to her life.
The thought made her hurry back downstairs. Every moment she wasn’t with him suddenly felt like one she was wasting because by next week she wouldn’t get the chance. Perhaps she never would again. She stopped in the kitchen doorway when the smell of garlic hit her.
“Blane?”
“Bea?” He was standing at the counter with his back to her and answered without turning around.
“What are you doing?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Getting started on the moussaka.”
She went to him, rested one hand on his shoulder and peered around him. “Blane?” She loved the feel of his laughter under her hand almost as much as she loved the sound of it.
“Yes, Bea?”
“You chopped the bloody garlic with your knife, didn’t you? You big…”
He burst out laughing. “Figured it was the more efficient way of doing it. You were taking forever finding that little thing, and I still don’t see how it’s supposed to work.”
She laughed with him. “You’re a terrible, terrible man.”
He curled an arm around her shoulders. “Yeah, but you seem to like my kind of terrible.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she clung to him for a moment before making herself let go.
“I love it, Blane.”
As soon as the words were out, she dropped her gaze.
That was twice now she’d almost said something else, and it was becoming ridiculous.
She pointed at the finely chopped garlic on the cutting board in front of him.
“I do not love this. I was going to show you how my garlic grater works. You invested good money in it; I’d hate for you to think it was wasted. ”
He smiled through pursed lips and handed her a clove. “Go on then. Show me.”
“You peeled it already.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you don’t peel them in English cooking.”
She slapped his arm. “Would you stop with that?”
He laughed. “Yeah, all right. Sorry. Go on. Introduce me to the wonders of a garlic grater.”
Bea set the little dish on the counter, rubbed the clove over the rough center in small circles and watched it turn quickly into a soft paste, the juice and garlic collecting neatly in the shallow well around the edge.
“There.” She looked up at him triumphantly. “See?”
Blane leaned in and inspected it as seriously as if he were evaluating specialist equipment.
“Huh.”
“That’s all I get? Huh?”
He picked up another clove. “Didn’t say it was useless.”
“Oh, high praise indeed.”
He handed it to her. “Do another one.”
She laughed and took it from him. “I knew I’d convert you.”
“Wouldn’t go that far.” But he stayed right there beside her while she grated the next clove.
~ ~ ~
By the time they had the moussaka assembled and ready for the oven, the kitchen looked as though they’d used every bowl and utensil Bea owned. Blane surveyed the damage while she slid the dish onto the middle shelf.
“You sure this is worth it?”
She straightened and closed the oven door. “You’ll be very sorry you said that when you’re eating it.”
“I’m already sorry. Mostly because I’m gonna be the one washing all this.”
She turned slowly. “Excuse me?”
He looked at the counter, then back at her. “You cooked.”
“We cooked.”
“You supervised.”
Her mouth dropped open, and he laughed.
“You are unbelievable.”
“Pretty sure you’ve told me that before.”
“Yes, but apparently I need to keep telling you until it sinks in.”
She came toward him with a dish towel in her hand, and he caught her wrist before she could swat him with it.
“Careful.”
“Or what?”
He smiled down at her. “You really want to find out?”
Something changed in her expression. He knew that look now.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then lifted again. “Maybe I do.”
He took the dish towel from her hand and tossed it onto the counter.
“Moussaka’s got a while.”
“Exactly.”
He laughed softly and drew her against him.
“Always got an answer, haven’t you?”
“Usually.”
“Yeah. I like that about you.”
Her hands slid up his chest, and the teasing look faded from her face as she leaned into him.
He kissed her slowly. There was no urgency in it—there was no need.
He liked kissing her just for the sake of kissing her, liked the way she relaxed against him after the first few seconds and the way her fingers found the back of his neck as though they’d always known the way there.
When she smiled against his mouth, he pulled back a fraction. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s bullshit.”
She laughed softly. “I was just thinking how strange it is.”
“What is?”
“How normal this feels.”
He stilled. Not because he didn’t understand her. He did.
She must have seen something in his face, because her hand came up and rested against his cheek. “I didn’t mean ordinary.”
“I know.”
“I mean…” Her smile softened. “Us.”
He turned his head and kissed her palm. “Yeah, darlin’. I know what you mean.”
And he did. That was the part that kept catching him off guard.
None of this felt like something they were trying to build on purpose.
It wasn’t a vacation affair they were squeezing into the days they had, and it didn’t feel like pretending at some life neither of them actually had.
It just felt like them—and like them being them was normal.
She rose onto her toes and kissed him again, this time there was more heat behind it. He slid his hands around her waist, and when she pressed closer, he groaned against her mouth.
“You’re gonna make me forget there’s food in the oven.”
“We have a timer.”
“Good thinking.”
“I have my moments.”
He kissed her again, harder now, and her laugh disappeared into his mouth.
A few minutes later, when he lifted his head, she was flushed and breathing fast, and he was having serious trouble remembering why they were still standing in the kitchen.
He brushed his thumb over her cheek. “Upstairs?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
He laughed. “Liar.”
“Possibly.” She took his hand and started for the stairs.
Halfway there, he glanced back toward the kitchen. “What about the timer?”
She stopped and looked at him, and for one godawful second, he thought she was going to suggest they wait. Then she grinned. “We’ll hear the oven.”
“Darlin’, this house has thick walls.” He stared at her, and she burst out laughing.
“Fine. Bring the timer.”
God help him, he loved this—not just the sex, although he wanted her badly enough that his whole body was impatient with the delay.
Yeah, the sex was great—special. But this was about so much more: her laughter, the rain outside, dinner cooking downstairs, that stupid little garlic grater sitting beside his knife.
When he came back with the timer, she was holding out her hand, waiting for him to follow her upstairs.
He swatted her ass. “Move it—I’ve never done it with a timer ticking over me before; we’d better get up there.”
She laughed all the way up the stairs, and Blane followed close behind her, the timer in one hand and his other sliding around her waist as soon as they reached the landing.
“You’re cheating,” she said as he pulled her back against him.
“Pretty sure there aren’t rules.”
“There are always rules.”
“Not interested.”
She turned in his arms, still smiling, but whatever she’d been about to say disappeared when he kissed her.
Damn, he loved that too. Bea could talk her way around almost anything when she wanted to.
She could explain and qualify and keep a conversation going long after he would have let it die, but when she wanted him she didn’t hide it.
Her hands slid under his shirt and across his back, and when he walked her slowly toward the bedroom, she came with him without breaking the kiss.
“Still got that timer?” she murmured against his mouth.
He held it up beside her head.
She laughed. “Very romantic.”
“Doing my best.” He set it on the nightstand, face-down.