17. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Carrington
T he mood shifted quickly yesterday once Elsher came to see us at RED. Thea was cordial and engaged, but the uninhibited, wild version that hauled me into the office was gone. In her place was the detached Thea that’s kept me at arm’s length up until a few days ago.
I’m not sure if it’s because of what happened between us—although she initiated it and took charge of the whole experience—or if it was because the lawyer’s visit served as a bucket of ice water, reminding her of her grief and her new position.
There’s also the chance that once the lust haze cleared, her guilt about what her actions mean for her relationship with Ripley hit her. It’s obvious he cares for her and maybe he’s been good for her, but there’s too much between us to just ignore it and move on. We tried that. For eight years, we “moved on.” Less than two weeks and we’re right back to where we were before it all went to shit. That has to mean something.
If I’m getting a second chance with Thea, I’m snatching it up with both hands and holding on for dear life. I’m not letting her go a second time. Fuck everyone and everything else. I know it makes me the biggest asshole—both because of the people my actions will hurt here, but also because of the beautiful heart it’ll crush in Seattle. Despite guilt being a constant companion at this point, I can’t make myself pause. Everything in me is screaming to forge full-steam ahead with Thea if she’ll have me.
With Travis in the kitchen, I don’t have a reason to go back to the restaurant today. Whether my name is on the ownership paperwork or not, the place belongs to Thea, and I’m not sure she wants to see me there this morning. We left things on a tense note after Elsher left.
Instead, I decide to go to the farmer’s market.
The farmer’s market has been taking place in the town square every Tuesday since before I was born. Although I went practically every week growing up, it appears to have turned into an all out event in the time I’ve been gone. It’s easily doubled in size with vendors coming from surrounding towns and some even further. The market I knew had a small list of participants, just the few local farmers and bakers. Now, the farmers and bakers are mixed in among booths of local artisans, offering handmade soaps, art, jewelry, and the like. The place is busy with everyone picking up produce and last minute items for Thanksgiving in a few days. It’s a chef’s wet dream.
As I browse a produce stand, taking a whiff of an especially beautiful tomato the size of my fist, my mind starts whirring with all the possibilities of what I can do with it. The aromatic scent of the bunches of basil lying on the table mixes with that of the tomato, and I’m imagining a beautiful, crisp bruschetta topped with a drizzle of balsamic glaze. I can almost taste the bite of garlic on my tongue.
I put the tomato back and keep moving down the table looking at what else is on offer. On the other side of the booth, there sit a few boxes of gorgeous homemade pumpkin pies. It’s when I’m looking at the box of pie that I notice the label: Abel’s Farm and Produce.
Old Man Abel was a grouchy bastard. I wonder if he’s still around or if his family runs the farm now. His farm is located on the edge of town, and he seems to grow everything: strawberries in the summer, pumpkins in the fall, Christmas trees you can cut yourself in the winter.
When we were about eleven or twelve, Thea and I got the brilliant idea to take our bikes out to his farm and help ourselves to some of his strawberry harvest. Everyone knew Old Man Abel grew the best strawberries, and since they were Thea’s favorite, I thought it was a great idea at the time.
We did this a few times with no repercussions, having the time of our lives. With the town being as small as it is, news of the “crime spree” made it to the next town council meeting. Crime wasn’t exactly something we had in Indigo Hill, so despite being no big deal to most, it was the news of the year for our town. Everyone was up in arms and concerned their farm would be next. Abel deemed us the Berry Bandit and put up such an upheaval, Sheriff Colson agreed to look into it.
The next time we went out for our berry shenanigans a few days later, the Sheriff caught us—quite literally—red handed. He had been sitting at the edge of the road leading to the farm and watched us bike all the way to the fields. Thankfully, he let us off with a warning, and we never went back. The mystery of the Berry Bandit was still alive and well when I left for Seattle, you’d think we’d been serial killers who were never caught.
I chuckle to myself as I reminisce, and an idea strikes me. Pulling out my phone, I shoot off a text to my former partner in crime.
Me: What time are you leaving the restaurant tonight?
Surprisingly, it only takes a second for Thea to text back.
Thea: 6
Not the warmest response, but I’ll take it.
Me: I’ll be at your house at 6:30. Be hungry.
When she doesn’t respond to fight me on the plans, I count it as a win. Before exiting the messaging app, I see another unread text waiting for me.
That Girl From That Bar.
After staring at the notification for a few moments, I lock the screen without opening the message and slip my phone back into my pocket.
I go back around to the produce and make my selections, picking up a few tomatoes and the fragrant basil. I’m waiting around for my turn to pay when I hear a gruff voice call out, “You plan on paying for that this time?” I look around and see Old Man Abel smirking at me. He’s sitting toward the back of the booth, hidden behind the crates of produce on the table. Rubbing the back of my neck, I feel sheepish meeting his eyes.
“Meg,” he says, speaking to the young woman manning the register who must be his granddaughter. “Throw in a pie for our Berry Bandit.”
“Thank you, you really don’t have to,” I say. “You knew?”
“Figured it out about the time you started avoiding my booth here the week after the Sheriff came and told me the problem had been taken care of,” he says with a laugh.
My face warms. “Sorry about that. We were just kids, you know?”
“Pretty girls will make you do all sorts of stupid shit,” he says, voice much warmer than I remember.
I thank him again, as well as Meg, and go pick up a few other items from other booths. Then I make my way over to Grayce’s Café to kill some time before I head to that same pretty girl’s house to do some more stupid shit.
The door opens a few moments after my knock, and Thea’s uncertain eyes meet mine. Her hair is down around her shoulders in soft waves. She’s wearing black jeans that seem to be painted on, making my mouth water at the sight. She’s paired them with a plain but fitted light green t-shirt.
“Hi,” I say with a small smile, lifting the totes of produce I’m carrying. She moves aside to let me in, her expression still wary. I make my way to the kitchen to put the bags on the counter, and she follows.
“I figured you probably didn’t eat much today,” I say, unloading the produce.
“You figured right. It was busy. I almost stayed to help close up, but Tiffany kicked me out when I mentioned I had plans.”
“We should probably give her a raise,” I say with a chuckle. My joke, however, does not have the desired effect, and her face grows more serious—if that’s even possible. I’m unsure how I’ve put myself in this situation. I’m glimpsing back to all those years ago when I was walking on eggshells around Thea, feeling like I couldn’t say or do anything right. I knew she had been unhappy, but I wasn’t able to pinpoint why or how to fix it.
I shake my head to clear it and face her head-on. Thanks to Dr. Ferris, I’m much better equipped to decipher another person’s emotional state as well as how to regulate my own without shutting down. I worked hard to not be like my father in that regard.
Express, don’t repress.
“What’s going on?” I ask as I push a lock of hair behind her ear.
She grabs my wrist and pulls it away from her face. “We need to talk about RED. I need to know what you’re planning for it. I can’t make any plans for its future if I don’t know what you’re doing. Our expansion plans are already—” I put my finger to her lips to cut off her rambling.
“Let’s table that for tonight.” She goes to say something else, already looking annoyed, but I speak again before she gets a word out. “I promise we’ll talk about it. I just need more time to wrap my head around everything. Trust me when I say I want nothing more than for RED to continue to succeed and grow. I know how much it means to you, how much it meant to my parents. All I’m asking for is some trust and a little bit of time. Can you give me that?” She stares at me for a moment like she’s waging a war in her mind to determine if she’s willing to lose this battle and then slowly nods.
“Good. Now,” I say, turning back to the ingredients littering the counter. “Will you be my sous chef?”
She rolls her eyes, but I finally get a smile. “I’m at your service, Chef,” she says with a small bow. The smile turns into a smirk, and I know she knows exactly how that sounds and what those words do to my cock. She grabs a portable speaker from the living room and places it on the counter in the kitchen.
“Here, dice the tomatoes for the bruschetta. I’ll get started on the chicken.” I set the oven to preheat, open the bottle of red wine I picked up before getting here, pour us each a glass, and leave the bottle to breathe. Thea grabs the fresh veggies and rinses them in the sink before beginning to chop and dice.
I sift through her spice cabinet for the basics: salt, pepper, garlic powder, and onion powder. Everything in the kitchen is exactly where her mom kept it when she lived here. It’s comforting and brings me back to the many afternoons I spent here whipping up snacks for us after school. I feel more connected to her now than I have since coming back simply because of where we are and what we’re doing.
We work in silence with only the slow melodic beats of Zach Bryan playing softly from the speaker Thea turned on. We move around each other in the cozy kitchen like we’ve been doing this exact thing for years. I catch her watching me as I season the whole chicken I got at the butcher’s booth today. Her eyes are a little glazed, and her pouty mouth is slightly open.
I motion toward my mouth and say, “Is that drool for dinner or for me?” As soon as the question leaves my lips, I know she’s going to give me one of her snarky answers, and the anticipation has me thrumming. This feels like before, like when I could read her every thought just by being in the same room as her.
She immediately snaps out of her daze, and sucks her lips in between her teeth, while her cheeks turn that pretty pink color I love.
“Don’t be getting cocky now. I’m just hungry.” She isn’t fooling either of us, but I let the lie slide. Her eyes go back to the task in front of her as she drizzles the balsamic glaze over the bruschetta she’s putting together. When she looks back up, she catches me staring this time, and her lips tilt up in a smirk. We continue in silence that I wish felt more comfortable. There’s a layer of tension coating the air, and I’m not sure how to diffuse it.
“Bruschetta’s ready,” she says, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. After a beat, she adds, “I’m sorry, but I really have to know. Are you going back to Seattle?” I should have known she wouldn’t leave the difficult conversations for another day. Thea was always able to flirt one second then turn serious the next. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep sidestepping her questions, but I wanted tonight to be about us and nothing else.
“Let’s not think about that tonight. Tonight is about good food.” I cut off a piece of the bruschetta and hold it up to her mouth. She takes the bite and lets out a moan that almost brings me to my knees. “Delicious wine.” I grab her glass then step in close to her front, backing her to the island, and lift the wineglass to her lips. She grabs it from me and takes a sip. “And mouthwatering company.” I wait until she swallows her wine, and then I lean down and kiss her. I glide my tongue against the seam of her lips, gently asking for entrance. She opens, and I taste the tang of the tomato, tannins of the wine, and sweetness of the balsamic glaze on her tongue. I could spend all night kissing her plump lips, but I slowly make my way down her chin to her neck with kisses and small nips.
I take the wine glass from her hand and place it on the island next to us. Her hands come up to my face and then into my hair. I feel her tugging out the tie holding my hair back.
“Fuck. It’s better than I imagined,” she says looking at where my hair falls around my face as I pull back.
“You’ve been thinking about my hair?” I say with a small laugh.
“Among other things.” She rakes her hands through it, seemingly enjoying the feeling.
“Hmmm,” I hum while going back to kissing her neck. She leans her head back giving me more access and closes her eyes. “I’ve been thinking too.”
“Oh yeah?” Her voice is breathless. Hearing her give in to what she’s feeling hardens my cock behind my fly. But her vulnerability also makes me pause.
I have to try to make this work with her. I feel it with everything in my body, my soul. I can guess where tonight is leading, and I need to talk to her, tell her about my life in Seattle before we take this next step. I owe that to her and to myself. I’ve dug a deep hole by keeping things from her, maybe too deep. But I have to explain and try to make her understand that despite how much of a dick I’ve been, I can’t lose her. I’ll beg for her forgiveness if I have to for as long as I have to.
“There’s something I have to tell you first,” I say, pulling back and putting some distance between us. She opens her eyes at the change in my tone. We stare at each other for a while, tension building, and I know I have to use this moment to tell her everything. “Listen.” I pause and swallow over the lump in my throat. “I know you have Ripley, and I have—“
“I think I’m still in love with you,” she blurts out, cutting me off and surprising herself as if she didn’t mean for it to come out.
When her words finally register, my movements are no longer my own. I grab her face and slam my mouth to hers. Her hands grab my shoulders. We kiss as though our lives depend on it. I inhale her intoxicating lemony scent and her soft moans as I desperately fuck her mouth with my tongue.
Confessions be damned.