Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Gray
“Crap,” I mutter, shoving a hand through my hair and promptly showering myself in flour.
When I woke up this morning, far earlier than I wanted to because I was worried about Faye and how she slept and if she had nightmares and if so, was she awake, I knew there was no hope of me falling back asleep.
And as I laid there, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if she was hurting or scared in a room just a floor below me, her words from the hospital came back into my head.
And wouldn’t leave.
I lost Nana’s banana bread recipe.
I can’t remember if her banana bread calls for one egg or two.
She had my phone, but I just snagged my tablet and found myself searching YouTube.
For banana bread recipes.
No, for the banana bread recipe—the one the interwebs declares is just like their how grandma used to make it.
Apparently, there are a lot of those exact recipes.
Too many to scroll through.
So I figured…grocery store for supplies and trial run?
I like banana bread. The guys are hoovers who won’t turn down any or all baked good offering, even if it’s only mediocre.
And maybe it’ll give Faye something to smile about.
A smile I could then taste?
Only, who know how goddamned hard it is to make banana bread.
First there’s the flour—measuring by weight. Well, I don’t have a scale, or not one that’s useful in the kitchen, anyway.
(My bathroom one doesn’t do measure in grams…ask me how I know.)
Then there’s using the fancy mixer Courtney bought years ago but I don’t think either of us ever turned on. Well, that bitch is a bitch—flinging flour in all directions, mixing too fast or too slow (hello fucking lumps).
And sour milk.
Isn’t that a bad thing?
So why am I mixing vinegar into good milk to make it?
None of it makes sense.
And look, I can cook. I have a repertoire of meals at my disposal. I’m not one of those helpless males who has to run home to mom to get a decent meal. I’ve been on my own, cooking for myself for a good long while.
But baking?
Well, I obviously overestimated my skills because my counter is littered with absolute disasters.
Mostly charred loaves.
Some underbaked ones.
And loaves that are somehow both at once.
Then there’s the mass of dishes in the sink…and elsewhere.
Measuring cups, spoons, and scrapers are intermixed with potholders and kitchen towels. And paper towels because I’ve been using those liberally as well.
It’s a disaster.
And Faye’s seeing it.
For a second, I don’t breathe.
It’s not so much the mess that undoes me—it’s the look on her face…and the shame washing over me.
Christ, if Courtney had found me like this—hell, if Courtney had found me baking at all—the amount of shit she’d give me…
Astronomical.
My parents would give it to me too.
Not that they’re bad people.
They just…have boomer-era views on the proper things that men and women should be doing.
To clarify:
Playing hockey—men.
Baking—women.
As for my teammates…
Their hockey captain baking banana—and failing?—yeah, that would be prime shit-giving territory.
And now Faye’s standing in the opening to the kitchen, pajamas rumpled, hair sleep-mussed, mouth fallen open in surprise.
Looking fucking adorable.
And gorgeous.
And mine.
But I’m bracing, watching her face as she shifts, shoving her hair back from her face, and then starts forward, moving toward me, lips curving, mouth opening.
Fuck. Preparing to give me shit.
Only when her words come out, they’re not that.
They’re…completely different.
“I fell in love with you four years ago.”
The mixer is still going and she reaches over, turns it off.
Leaving us in silence, the smell of burned sugar hanging in the air, something like triumph—and maybe a bit of discomfort—churning through my insides.
No one has ever said that to me before—not like that.
It’s always me deciding to take the risk, the women in my life accepting what I have to give.
Or oftentimes, not.
“I saw you in this kitchen”—a nod toward the window—“right through there. Our houses were mirrors of each other and I looked up, saw you in this room and…fell in love. You were smiling, laughing at something and everything in me just realigned. And that fantasy, the fantasy of you was something I held tight to, something I wrote about and dreamed about.” She sighs, closes the distance between us, and touches my jaw.
“But you’re even more wonderful than the fantasy I fell in love with.
” A chuckle. “Which is terrifying, I admit. But”—her teeth press into her bottom lip, cheeks flaring bright pink—“I think…if that doesn’t completely send you running for the hills then maybe we could kiss some more? ”
“Faye,” I rasp, starting to reach for her.
Then stopping.
Because there’s flour on my hands.
And bits of egg I didn’t finish washing off.
And my fingers smell like sour milk.
“Wash up,” she says, her lips twitching. “I’ll start in on the counters.”
“What about the kissing?” I ask, still rasping.
“Maybe we clean up and get the banana bread in the oven first and then do the whole kissing thing?”
“Maybe that might end with another burned loaf.” I make quick work of washing my hands then turn back toward her. “Not that I’d care.”
More pink on her cheeks, her eyes going hot, her body drifting toward mine as I come close. “And maybe,” she whispers, “I wouldn’t care if you put your hands—in any state—on my body.”
I’m moving almost before her words are out, eliminating the last few inches between us.
I plunge my hand into her hair, tilting her head back and dropping my mouth to hers.
She moans, and it’s the best sound on the planet.
But it’s not nearly as good as her body melting against mine, her hands settling on my waist, her tongue tangling with mine.
That has my cock going hard—or harder.
It has my grip on her hair tightening, tilting her head back so I can taste her more completely, so I have her completely under my control, so I can kiss her exactly as I’ve been thinking of.
Dreaming of.
And now she’s rested.
And now she’s made it clear she wants this.
And now—
“Gray!” she moans, nails digging into my skin.
My control snaps.