Chapter Six – Rhett.43
Chapter Six – Rhett
The stew had been going for the better part of an hour and the kitchen smelled like something a person wanted to come home to, which was, as far as I was concerned, the whole point of cooking.
Beef and root vegetables and the heel of a stock cube I had found at the back of the pantry shelf, the broth gone dark and rich from the low heat, and the whole thing bubbling with the particular patience of a pot that had nowhere to be.
I gave it a stir and watched the surface settle and gave it another one for good measure.
The apron strings were not built for a man of my dimensions.
That much was plain. They cleared my waist by a good four inches and tied in a small, cheerful bow at the small of my back, the fabric pulling across my shoulders in a way that suggested the apron had opinions about its current situation.
It was a floral thing, both yellow and white, with a garden scene of some kind.
I had found it on the hook by the stove and put it on without giving the matter too much thought, because cooking without an apron when you were managing a cast iron pot and a volatile stock situation was a choice that spoke poorly of a man’s priorities.
The fit was what it was. I had made my peace with it.
I lifted the spoon and tasted from the side of it, careful, and added a pinch more salt from the ceramic dish on the counter.
The window above the sink had gone the intense color of midnight blue, the evening light already faded the way it did in the deep part of winter, just a general withdrawal of the sun’s interest in the proceedings.
I couldn’t see much outside, but had offered to cook after she’d been busy with finances all day.
I turned back to the pot and started in on the second verse of the song I’d been working through, which was also the first verse because those were the only words I had with any reliability.
Something about a highway, something about leaving, a girl in there somewhere.
I scratched my head… it was a song that required atmosphere more than accuracy and I was providing that at sufficient volume for the kitchen.
I was midway through the chorus… or what I had decided was the chorus, when I heard it.
Not immediately. There was a moment where I registered something in the room that hadn’t been there before, a change in the air, a presence at the edge of my awareness, and I was in the middle of a word when the laugh broke out behind me.
It was not a polite laugh. It was not the kind a person produces to be sociable or to fill a silence.
It was a real loud, sudden, helpless laugh, the kind that arrives before a person can get a hand up to stop it.
Then there was the snort, sharp and involuntary, and the sound of a palm going over a mouth to smother the sound.
I spun around.
She was standing in the doorway, hair loose and light around her shoulders, one hand pressed flat over her mouth and her eyes wide above it.
She wasn’t just laughing but clearly appalled at herself for laughing, which was making her laugh harder.
Her other hand was on her belly, which was where it always was without her thinking about it.
She had been asleep; had a nap on the couch while I slaved away in here.
I rolled my eyes, looking at her, hand on my hip.
“I’ll have you know,” I said, “that this is a very serious cooking apron, and I wear it with full dignity.”
She made a sound that was not a word. Her shoulders were shaking. Her palm was pressed so hard against her mouth I thought she might actually injure herself.
“Professional dignity,” I added. “The flowers are a design choice.”
She dropped her hand from her mouth and the laugh came out completely then, doubled over slightly, and it filled the kitchen in a way that made the kitchen a different size than it had been a minute ago. I smirked, and couldn’t hold back on the laughter bubbling up inside me, joining her in it.
The stew started bubbling too high, and I turned it down a little, trying to get a grip on myself.
“You hungry?” I said, over my shoulder. I stirred the stew, slow and even, the way you stir something that doesn’t need stirring because your hands need something to do.
“Because I made enough for the whole county.”
I heard her behind me, the small creak of the chair at the corner of the table as she sat. The laughter had softened into something quieter, the tail end of it, and when I glanced back she was sitting with one hand on the table and the other on her stomach and the smile was still there in her face.
I looked at her for a moment. Checking she was still with me, which was a thing I had found myself doing more often than I could count since I’d arrived here. I knew why, but did she.
She was still with me, and I set a bowl on the counter and ladled in the stew filling it to the top.
We ate in silence, stealing glances at one another. I watched her finish up the last of her stew, smiling and happy and I didn’t feel the need to break the quiet, disturbing it with stories from a misspent youth.
Although I urged to take her hand across the table, feel her bare skin caress my own.
But now was not the time. Cole had told me what happened to her husband.
How she’d married a Beta and lost him in the severity of a storm.
It was still fresh, I could see it by the way she stared into space, by the way a pair of mud-filled boots still sat positioned on the floor gathering dust. She’ll get there, and when she does, we’ll all be waiting for her.
Because one thing I knew for certain, is that she was our match plain and simple, her scent pulled each of us in and held us in the ecstasy of her presence.
For her, I could wait, hell, I could wait for a lifetime.