Chapter 17 #2
Her hair is still up, and she’s kept her glasses on, keeping that cute and sexy mix.
She’s in shorts again, and another shirt that doesn’t reach her waistband.
My mouth goes dry and my worries from seconds ago dissipate as quickly as the heat from her ovens.
It doesn’t take much to undress her when she’s like this, but I can strip her out of her sweats just as fast. “Lookin’ hot as always. ”
“Same goes for you. Let me grab the bread I made for you.”
“You baked me bread?” She said she would, and I didn’t doubt her, but I didn’t expect her to make me a priority.
She picks up a small box off the island. “I made fancy white bread, but also a loaf of sourdough. If it’s too much, maybe the guys at Foster House will eat it.”
They’d gobble up every crumb. Touched, I take the box from her. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
It’s not for her, but it means a lot to me. She not only remembered my comment, but she cared enough to do something about it.
I load her into the pickup, put the bread in the back, and take off, scanning the sidewalk for a guy in golf clothing and a smug expression. I haven’t seen Dean again, and she hasn’t mentioned a problem customer again. He must’ve left town by now.
When I pull up to my house, I park outside the garage since there’s a lull in the drizzle. Rufus is on the porch in his little igloo doghouse. He waddles out, his corgi butt wiggling, barks once, and goes back in his hut. A small sigh leaves her. I cast a questioning gaze her way.
Her expression is at peace. “I just love your place. Rufus is adorable.”
My chest puffs out like I’m a kid and she told me I run really fast in my new shoes. “Rufus knows he’s adorable, but the cows disagree, and you get to see the inside of my place this time.”
“Can’t wait.”
Neither can I. All the guys I work with have seen the house, but I haven’t brought a woman home. Not even the Hawthorne sisters have been inside, and I’d consider them in my friend circle.
I have a friend circle. Another one I built outside of the Baileys. Moments like these show me how far I’ve come.
“What’s wrong?” She must’ve sensed the shift of my thoughts.
I blink. I’ve been staring at the sweeping arches and looming picture windows on this side of my house.
“Just marveling over how much has changed. I used to stay home alone in a dirty apartment in filthy clothing. Then I moved in with the Baileys, and I dunno, maybe deep down I thought they all just tolerated me because Myles married into their family. Lane earned their respect, but I was respected only by proxy.”
“You underestimate that charm of yours.” She reaches over the console and squeezes my hand. “And how likable you are when a girl is trying really hard not to notice.”
“You made it look easy,” I say softly with no blame in my voice, and stroke the back of her hand with my thumb.
“But then I moved here. My last name is Foster, but I’m only part owner because of Myles.
We have an understanding about our rank at the Foster House Gold site.
Lane’s the top, under Myles of course. Then it’s Iverson, because he was in charge of the Hennessy trust that Myles bought the land from. ”
She tilts her head like she’s working through the information I just gave her to see my point.
When she doesn’t respond, I continue. “They’re my friends.
Jamison and Campbell are too, and while it’s because I work with their guys, they don’t have to have anything to do with me.
Then there’s your sister and Edna. I work with them, and I’m sort of their boss, but at the same time, they’re friends.
Edna doesn’t have to take me to bingo. I have people.
That kid sitting in his underwear, eating stale, dry cereal before school, where he’d get teased, has his own crew now. ”
“Oh, Cruz.” She clambers over the console and into my lap. “You’re breaking my damn heart.” She runs her fingers over my scalp, and I hum at how good it feels. “If I could go back to my childhood and give you half the love and support I got, I would.”
“I never felt sorry for myself.” I stroke a finger along her jaw. She’s on my lap, and blood is rerouting. I’m almost fully erect, despite our heavy conversation. “I was just angry. Then I didn’t care.”
“You care a lot.”
“Now I do, yeah.” I trace her lower lip. “I care about you. And if we keep going like this, I’m not going to get to feed you.” Stroking my hands down her arms, I eventually release her to open the door. I climb out with her in my arms.
She giggles but clings to me. “You can put me down.”
“I know.” I like the idea of walking into my house with her in my arms too much. “I’ll come back for the bread.”
I unlock the front door and toe it open. Going through the entry with a mat for shoes and a line of hooks for coats and hats, I’m careful to keep from hitting her limbs as I carry her into the main room.
She looks around, a small gasp leaving her. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Lane says I should put a picture up or something.”
“Why?” Her wide eyes take in my arched ceiling, the massive panes of glass, and the clear walls. “It’s so simple and beautiful.”
“It’s open and clean.”
She wiggles to get her feet on the floor. I set her down, but I don’t let her go. “That’s important to you. It’s why your pickup is spotless, and you’re always freshly showered. You leave to do chores, but you never come back dirty.”
“Am I getting called out for having good hygiene?”
“It’s just a thing for you. You’re not compulsive about it. Meanwhile, I’m often dusted in flour and my main style is sweats.”
“I like you in sweats.” I wish she wasn’t in anything at the moment.
She catches the gleam in my eye and smirks. “Give me a tour.”
“This is the living room.” I snicker when she shoots me a ha ha, smartass look.
“I like your furniture.” She tows me to the plush, earthy-brown couch flanked by a matching chair. Red plaid throw pillows are some of the only color besides the wood in the room. “It looks comfy.”
“I’ve taken a few naps on it.” I lead her to the kitchen. “This is where I don’t make as much magic with eggs as you.”
“I can make you eggs. You make me whiskey to bake with.”
“It’s my favorite of what we produce.”
“Why?” She crosses her arms and her eyes twinkle. “It’s my turn to ask about your job. What makes whiskey different than gin or vodka?”
“I’ve never thought about it.” I scratch my chin, enjoying her real interest in my world.
The guys and I discuss what we make and why, but not like this.
I treat all three spirits equally when it comes to my profession.
But personally? “Whiskey is an all-in-one. It’s like a meal in a glass.
Vodka, to me, is more of a starting point.
You can drink it straight, but people rarely do.
It’s an excellent canvas to paint with other flavors.
Gin’s not quite the same. I like it best straight because its flavor profile is often more delicate than whiskey.
I like a simple life and a complex drink. ”
“And I like your perspective.” She breaks away from me to wander around the space. She peeks in the oven, checks out the microwave, and opens both doors of the fridge. “You have nice appliances.”
“I just told them I didn’t want shit that would break down in five years.”
She leans against the counter and traces my chocolate-brown farmhouse sink. “Whiskey’s your favorite to drink. What’s your favorite to make?”
“Whiskey wins again. Durban likes to play with the flavor profiles and mess around with the infusions, aging times, and barrel types. I like to straight up make a damn good whiskey.”
She tips her head to the side. “And when you find a recipe you like, you don’t mind making it over and over and over again?”
“Not one bit.” We share a smile, and I close the distance between us. Propping my hands on either side of her, I stay nice and close to her. “What’s your favorite thing to make?”
“Muffins.”
“Muffins? Not some fancy cake?”
“I like the challenge of some of the wedding and birthday cakes I make, but muffins are easy. I don’t mind decorating, but it can be stressful.
After I’ve been burning through the kitchen at a hundred miles an hour, holding still enough to pipe the perfect rose can make me cry.
” She gets a faraway look. “Muffins are reliable. I don’t often put icing on them or anything.
I just get to throw things into the mixer, pour it into cupcake tins, and then I have a breakfast that’s basically a dessert. ”
“Favorite flavor?”
“Sour cream almond poppy seed.”
I kick a foot out behind me to lower me enough that our faces are level. “How often do you make it?”
“Once a quarter.”
I straighten. “Why not once a month?”
“They aren’t a big seller.”
“Can’t you just make them for your enjoyment?” She pours herself into work out of necessity, but is she actively depriving herself of pleasure?
“I could, but it’s a whole batch, and it’s easier for me to eat what I make to sell.”
“Damn, sugar.” I feather my finger down a free lock of hair. She kept the messy bun from when she was working, but a few tendrils have escaped. “You need more pleasure in your life.”
“I happen to have had more of it lately.” Her voice becomes a sultry purr, going straight to my dick.
My pulse hammers behind my zipper, and I haven’t even started cooking yet. “We should do tonight backward.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to fuck you right here.” I drag her shorts down, dropping to a squat to help her get them off.
Her bare pussy is inches from my mouth, and I start salivating.
I take her sandals off too, and run my fingertip over the polished blue toenails on one foot.
Goose bumps explode over her skin. “Then I’ll cook for you, feed you, and after, we’re going to your place, and you’re going to make those muffins. ”
She tenses and tries to shrink away. “I can’t. Every dollar counts right now. I don’t know if the street fair will be a boom or a bust and I have . . . bills.”
I run my hands up and down her thighs. If I could help obliterate each penny she owes, I would.
I look up her body. Her chest rises and falls, softly rustling the fabric of her shirt.
I wrap my hand around her calf. “Make a whiskey icing for it, something that’ll help move them, but leave some uncovered and all for you. ”
Her eyes lighten. “A whiskey icing would go really well with the muffins. I sell more whenever I use a Foster House product as an ingredient.” Heat blends the brown and green of her irises and she pushes her hands through my hair. “I like a guy with a big brain.”
“No one’s ever been with me for my brains.”
She cups my chin and prompts me to rise. I hate leaving my vantage point, but determination lines the set of her mouth. When I stand, she rubs her thumb across my lower lip. “Your brains, your body, and your booze. I’m not a picky hussy when it comes to you.”
“You’re my hussy.”
“Just for you.”
Just for me. I lift her to the counter and unzip my jeans.
This guarded woman gives herself to me over and over.
Yet as I roll on the condom and plunge into her, and when she wraps her legs around my waist and hooks her ankles, as she lets me do what I want to bring us both to our peak, she’s still holding a part of herself back.