Chapter 16 #2
A smile prods at my lips, but the heaviness of the answer keeps me serious. “Uh, it was selfish. If I learned to cook and stayed broke, at least my stomach wouldn’t suffer.”
She turns toward me. “Like it did when you were growing up.”
It’s easy to talk to her, and she treasures honesty, so that’s what I’ll give her.
“If she remembered to buy groceries or leave money for us to get food at the closest gas station, all we’d get was discounted cans of whatever.
We’d get sent home with backpacks of food from school, and .
. .” I shudder. “We survived, but you won’t catch me eating a PB and J ever again. ”
“No one would blame you.”
“And it’s only fancy white bread for me. Not the cheap, mass-produced stuff.” I bypass my driveway and take the dirt road that’ll lead to a small access road. From there, we’ll do a short stretch of off-roading.
“I’ll have to make you bread now.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t be a very good baker girlfriend if I didn’t bake my guy fancy bread. My sourdough doesn’t get enough action.”
Does she realize what she said? Girlfriend? Do I dare bring it up?
She looks around. Trees grow thicker and less manicured on one side. Our cattle graze on the other side. “Your property is so beautiful. Where does this lead?”
“A creek. It widens around a bend during the spring, so not as many trees grow there. Lane and I found it when we were out riding one day.” I turn onto the narrow road and we bump along. “Last summer, we put a picnic table there.”
“You use that line on all the ladies?”
I laugh. “The only female I’ve brought out there is my mare.”
“What’s her name?” The tenderness in her question surprises me.
“Catherine.”
“For real? Your mare’s name is Catherine.”
“She’s a serious horse.”
Her laughter brightens my entire afternoon and chases away the lingering memories of when I was growing up.
Back then, picnics were just a frivolous thing mentioned in stories, and I was an angry kid who didn’t care because no one else seemed to.
Now I’m having a romantic picnic on my property with a local business owner.
She hangs on to the oh-shit handle during the roughest part of the ride. Finally, I park in a clearing not far from the creek.
“Wow.” She peers out the window at the green trees crowding the shoreline. Weeds and wildflowers are intermixed all the way up to the shoreline. The glitter of water peeks through the greenery. “It’s gorgeous.”
Pride puffs out my chest even though I had nothing to do with how nature carved out this little spot. I’m just lucky enough to call myself an owner of it for this moment in time, and I get to share it with a woman who’s becoming really damn special to me.
“You can’t hear the highway out here.” I kill the engine and open the door. Only the faint trickle of water and the breeze rustling the trees greet us. “I don’t come out here nearly enough. Go ahead. Explore while I get everything ready.”
“I almost wore sandals. So glad I didn’t. The only nature I’ve gotten lately is weeding my parents’ garden.” She scrambles out of the pickup and picks her way through the tall grasses, passing the table, and continuing along a wildlife trail to the water’s edge.
I catch myself smiling like a dumbass, watching her frolic in nature.
Time for a picnic. I pull out the box of food.
I might’ve learned to cook, but I’m not trained in presentation.
An old sheet is going to have to do for a tablecloth.
By the time I’m done covering the table and setting out the food, she’s wandered back.
I wouldn’t have rushed her. She needs this, and it’s humbling that I can give it to her.
“This all looks so good.” She presses a hand to her stomach like it’s going to dive for the food. “I’m so stinking hungry, you might have to watch your own plate.”
“Each bite you steal from me is going to cost you a kiss.”
She smiles. “You’re not giving me a reason to behave.”
Good. I don’t want her to, not with me.
Elodie
Damon’s second visit and the reminder that my reputation and, therefore, my business are on the line for thousands of dollars have put a damper on my whole day.
Cruz packed the best food. I need his fried chicken recipe like I need to draw my next breath.
I’ve eaten more veggies during this date than the last week.
If I wasn’t so outraged at the increased amount Damon informed me I now owe, this would be just perfect.
Cruz sets out my lunch bag, but he digs into his tote bag of goodies. What he withdraws shoves the lurking concern of my blackmailer to the dark corners of my brain.
“Macarons!” I clap my hands, suddenly giddy. A row of pristine light green and pink macarons are encased in a plastic sleeve with a tidy little bow. The label reads Scooter’s Confections.
He grins and pride radiates in his expression. “I have to admit I didn’t bake these. Myles was up last Friday and he brought me some from his sister-in-law’s bakery in Bourbon Canyon.”
The delighted look on his face, all because of my enthusiasm, hits me hard. This guy wants to make me happy. Can it be as simple as that?
It could be, if I weren’t getting blackmailed.
How do I keep my shit from affecting him? Do I offer to pay Damon more if he’ll never stop by the bakery again? Would Damon even honor that agreement?
Cruz hands me a green macaron. “You like pistachio?”
I’m gladly yanked out of my head. “I fucking love pistachio. And if I don’t have to make my own macarons? Even better.” I love my job, but this is a treat for me. I don’t get out enough to try other bakeries.
He reads the plastic container it was in. “Pistachio with cherry bourbon filling.”
I bite into it and groan. The slight crunch of the outer shell is perfection, and the smooth burst of cherry with it gives my taste buds an orgasm. “So good,” I say around my mouthful.
The denim blue of his eyes turns to midnight. “Have another one.”
I’m not even finished with my first before he hands me a pink macaron. I giggle around the last two bites of pistachio. This is so blissfully romantic, yet it seems normal at the same time. Only Cruz can pull that off, and do it when I’m under so much pressure.
“This one is cherry with pistachio filling.” He pivots on the bench seat so his legs are flanking me.
He hasn’t taken a bite yet, so I hold the cherry pistachio macaron up for him. “You first.” The last time I hand-fed him turned out quite pleasantly.
He holds my gaze as he takes a bite. His lips graze my fingertips and a shiver ghosts down my spine. I have never been so turned on while enjoying all nature has to offer.
A satisfied grunt leaves him and he swallows. “That is good.”
I pop the rest in my mouth and my eyelids roll back. “Ugh. I’m never making them again. I’ll just buy these. Now I won’t want a cupcake.”
He cocks a brow and gets that wicked look in his eyes that I’ve only ever seen him use on me.
He digs out the two cupcakes and the piping bag of bright yellow frosting.
Nice and summery. Narrowing his eyes as he concentrates, he pipes the frosting onto each cupcake in a sloppy circle. “Damn. You make this look easy.”
“It’s the technique. You have to gauge that grip strength. Too hard and it all just shoots out.” The way his eyes smolder spurs me on. “Too light, and not enough comes out. You might have to keep squeezing and squeezing.”
His fingers tighten on the bag and a little dollop falls out. “You might have to show me exactly what you mean.”
“We’re out of cupcakes.” I’m playing with fire, but my belly is full, the day is beautiful, and we’re far enough away from town that the worries about my ex and his brother can’t get to me.
The gleam in his eye gets brighter, but he gathers all the containers and empty plates. He sets them back in the bag he packed, gently loads the two frosted cupcakes back into the lunch bag, and pushes them aside. Then he pats the table in front of him. “Climb on.”
My breath hitches, but I do as he orders. The tablecloth is warm under my shorts, and he spreads my legs until they’re on either side of him.
He holds the piping bag and looks at me like he wants to say something.
I sit forward and stroke my fingers down his cheek. “Talk to me.”
His dark gaze softens, but there’s timidity there. “Earlier, you called yourself my girlfriend.”
Oh. Was that bad? “I should’ve asked first.”
“No,” he says gruffly. “It’s exactly what I want to hear.”
“Really?”
“It means you’re mine, and now we both know it.” He lifts the piping bag. “Take your shirt and bra off. I’m having a sugar craving.”
Butterflies explode in my belly and careen back and forth, but I do as he asks. I need to shut my brain off and halt the endless to-do list running through my head and just feel. Cruz will do that for me. He already is—this is just the cherry on top.
Heat licks across my bare breasts with the light breeze, and my nipples pucker tighter than ever. Pure greed fills his face. He stands and rests a knee on the bench. Then he uses the frosting bag to write out four letters across my chest—MINE.
“Yours,” I say quietly.
“I’m serious about us, Elodie.” He puts a hand on either side of me and leans down to lick the bottom of the M off. “I’m going to keep showing you that you can trust me.”
My nipples are poking into the air like they’re trying to get into his mouth, but he’s steadily cleaning all the frosting off of me. I tip my head back and enjoy the sensual strokes of his tongue and the low growls that come from him.
When he cleans the last dab off, he pipes a dot on a nipple. “You’re so fucking sweet.”
Covering the pearl with his mouth, he sucks hard and I arch into him. He’s obliterated any logical thinking. I’m just a bundle of nerves waiting for the pleasure he can give me.