25. Danger
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
danger
“Took you long enough,” I tell her. Door open, my arm braced overhead, a lazy smirk in place like I wasn’t counting the seconds since her last text. Not that I’d ever say that shit out loud.
Her hair is up in a twist, mouth glossed, black skirt shifting just right around her ass.
“I got here pretty fast considering someone fixed my car.” She flicks a look back at her car, all four tires airtight and aligned. “They did a lot of work.”
I stay quiet just long enough for her to get uncomfortable. “Did they, now?”
Her brow lifts. “Any idea who might’ve done that?”
I shrug, real slow. “No idea. But you’ll have to thank them for me. It was kind of an eyesore.”
She laughs and pushes past. There’s a swirl of perfume as she goes—vanilla and wildflowers. She’s halfway down the hall before she pivots, steps back, and plants a quick kiss on my cheek.
“What was that for?”
She shrugs. “You know.”
I want to say I don’t, but I do. Only took me the entire day to steal her damn car and make it safe to drive again.
“C’mon,” I say, nodding toward the kitchen. “Fisher’s waiting.”
The light’s still on above the island. He’s planted on a barstool, chin in his hands, elbows digging into the granite. There’s a bowl of chocolate chips in front of him, which he’s picking through one by one.
“Finally,” he tells her.
Winnie grins. “Sorry, Chef. Came as quickly as I could to this emergency.”
“Dad says you’re the best baker in town,” he says.
She leans her hip against the counter, hands folded pretty. “I don’t know about that, but I can teach you all my secrets.”
His eyes go wide. “You will?”
“Yep. Wanna help me get the ingredients together?”
“Abso-lutely.”
He’s all in, tearing open the fridge before she’s even finished her sentence.
Milk, butter, eggs. Winnie calls out measurements, but he’s got no clue how to read a cup from a quart.
She just lets him do everything, all patient, plucking shells from the bowl and laughing when he tries to beat the eggs with the flat of a spatula.
She looks back at me over her shoulder, smile sticky sweet. “Can you preheat the oven?”
I’m already doing it, but I nod anyway. “Only if I get to lick the bowl.”
Winnie grins. “The child gets first dibbs.”
Fisher’s oblivious, lost in the world of sugar and dough. “My buddy said the way to get the ladies to like you is to bake them stuff,” he announces.
I cough into my sleeve. “Your buddy said what?”
He ignores me, laser-focused on Winnie. “Do you think I could take a few to O?”
I look at him crazy. “Who’s O?”
He looks up, sheepish. “Ophelia. She’s… the prettiest girl in school.”
Winnie giggles and ruffles his hair. “And I bet she thinks you’re the cutest boy in school.”
He beams. “I know she does.”
The next half hour’s a blur of flour and spilled vanilla and Winnie’s hands, so careful in guiding his.
She leans close every time he messes up, her hair falling loose from the clip.
At one point she smudges flour across his cheek, then wipes it away with her thumb, and he barely even notices because he’s so into the mixing.
I watch from a distance. I can’t not. Every time she looks at him, my heart beats like it’s there, almost sparks a feeling I used to get before I knew what it cost to want something that much.
The cookies go in the oven. Fisher sets the timer then stares at it like he can will the numbers down faster.
He talks the whole time, a string of what’s-her-favorite-color and what-if-she-doesn’t-like-them and do-you-think-I’ll-ever-get-taller.
Winnie answers every question, giving him all her attention.
When the timer buzzes, Fisher yanks open the door, almost getting singed by the heat. “Easy, kid,” I say, pulling him back. I handle the tray, set it on the stove, and let the smell take over.
Fisher picks out the two best, and Winnie puts them into a ziplock bag. She sets them on a napkin, and Fisher writes “O” on it with a Sharpie. The rest get divided—me and him and Winnie. He eats two before they’ve even cooled, chocolate streaking his fingers.
“Best ever,” he mumbles, mouth full.
I say, “Whatever you do, don’t let the ladies see you eatin’ with your mouth open. Women hate that.”
Winnie says, “I don’t know.” She’s looking at me, not Fisher. “Pretty hard to stay mad at that face.”
Once the counter’s cleared, I glance at the clock. Eight forty-five.
Winnie grins. “Baking must have tired him out.”
I look back at Fisher, who has a cookie in one hand, a glass of milk in the other. His head is on the countertop, asleep right there, a ring of milk on the surface where his cheek meets the stone.
“He had a good night.” I lift him up, his arms going limp over my shoulder, and carry him down the hall.
His bed’s a mess of dinosaurs and half folded blankets.
I set him down and cover him up. For a second he’s just a kid, small and soft.
Still my baby even if he doesn’t think so.
I brush the hair out of his eyes then shut the door behind me.
When I come back, Winnie’s at the sink, up to her wrists in suds.
She has the radio on, Dolly Parton is playing as she works her way through the dishes.
Her hips sway in time, almost without her knowin’.
She’s got this little curl at the nape of her neck, slipping loose from the rest, and I want to touch it. But I don’t.
I lean in the doorway, arms folded. “Let me finish that.”
She glances back. “It’s no biggie.”
She shakes the bowl in her hand dry, then lines it up on the rack.
“You sit,” I say, handing her the towel to dry off.
When she finally turns, her cheeks are flushed. She takes the towel and dries her hands then hops up on the counter, legs pressed tight together so I can’t see up her skirt.
She leans back, palms flat behind her. “You surprise me every day, Danger Stetson.”
I turn off the sink, wipe my hands on a towel, toss it over my shoulder. “Why’s that?”
Her black satin panties flash as she shifts, just a hint, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I step into the light, close enough that her knees brush my hips.
She shrugs. “You’re just… different than I expected.”
“What, worse?”
“No. Better,” she says, tilting her chin, taunting.
“You don’t have to say that, you know. I can handle the truth.”
I slide closer, arms braced on either side of her. “Just like I truthfully think you make the best cookies I’ve ever had.”
She laughs, breathless. “Your son helped.”
“Uh huh.”
She spreads her knees just enough that her skirt rides up even higher. My eyes catch the movement before I drag them back to her face. She notices. The corner of her mouth lifts.
“So,” she says, “you know about mine, can you tell me about yours?”
I’m biting my lip to try to focus and stop thinkin’ about everything under her skirt. “About what?”
“These.” She pushes up my shirt and trails a fingertip over the ink carved along my ribs. Goosebumps explode across my skin.
I give her a look that says don't make me say it out loud, then exhale. “That’s Fisher.” I point to the script near my ribs and then to the one below it. “This is for my first horse.”
Her finger drifts to the next one. “And this one?”
I flinch like the touch is a spark. “P.J.’s favorite flower.”
I can tell she knows I felt her touch everywhere.
She pushes my shirt up higher, brushing the edge of the tattoo on my chest. “And… this one?”
It takes me a moment before I speak, like I’m gathering the right words.
“That one… it says ‘I love you backwards’. My granddaddy used to say most folks don’t love right till it’s too late.
Until they lose someone. Said if he could do life over, he’d love his sweetheart on the first day he met her just as much as he loved her the day she died. So he… he loved us backwards. Always.”
She traces the word backwards lightly.
My jaw tightens, I'm doing my best trying to keep contained. “He always told us that when you say it, mean it. Not easy, not soft… but forever. Even if the world doesn’t understand it.”
I can tell by her expression she knows how hard it was for me to say any of that. To open that door at all.
“I honestly love that. What other tattoos do you have?” She asks, her voice quieter now, softer but curious.
“You don’t wanna know,” I whisper, eyes dropping to her mouth.
“What does that mean?” She teases. “Do you have one you regret on your butt or something?”
I grin, running my tongue across my teeth. “No. Not my ass.”
“Oh,” she says, but I can tell she’s calculating all the places that could be. “And you’re sure you’re still all the bad things they say? Because those all seem like really sweet sentimental tattoos.”
“Probably. One isn’t though.”
She shakes her head. “You’ll have to show me because I think you might secretly be really sweet and caring.”
“Oh, yeah? Is that what you think?”
She traces her fingertip along my abs, then over the button on my jeans. “I think you’re sweet. And strong. And protective. You do nice things when no one’s looking.”
“Prove it,” I whisper in her ear.
She looks up, all blue and wide. “I don’t have to. I believe it.”
I take her jaw in my hand, gentle but firm. “You want to know what I think?”
She nods, not speaking.
I lean in so close our lips almost touch. “I think you’re beautiful. Smart. Good with my son.”
She’s smiling now, but her breath’s gone shaky. “Keep going.”
“No.”
She opens her legs, just a little more, and pulls me in by the belt loop. Her knees on either side of my hips, heat bleeding through the denim.
She pouts. “Why not?”
“I’m done talking.”
I don't hesitate. I kiss her slow enough to make her feel it, deep enough to make sure she remembers it. She tastes like sugar and salt and chocolate. Her hands fist in my shirt, nails biting, and when she moans it’s the only sound I ever want to hear again.