Chapter 16
[Neve]
While I’d slept, Tate cleaned my kitchen and made fresh pie dough, which he set in the fridge. I start the oven for the baked ziti Lumi brought me, while thoughts about Tate’s dad fill my head.
He looked utterly crushed with the admission that he didn’t follow in his father’s footsteps. That his father had been disappointed in him.
From an outsider’s perspective, Tate is doing pretty well for himself. The suit. The silver watch. The slick clothes, especially those khakis from the other day. But nothing can wreck a child’s heart more than feeling like they failed a parent.
I’d been a bit of a disappointment to my mother. She never told me so directly, but I wasn’t one of her girls. The girly kind of girls, like my sisters. I clung to my father. The son he never had in a daughter.
Once the ziti is in the oven, I suggest we put together the ingredients for the pie. Since the oven will be hot, we’ll bake the pie afterward. The time it takes to heat ziti and finish a pie will only prolong Tate’s departure, but there’s something holding me back from shoving him out the door.
I was surprisingly relieved to find he hadn’t left me earlier, like I thought.
“I want to apologize.”
His brows lift. “For what?”
“How I behaved yesterday. I was . . . emotional.”
He purses his lips, thankfully not commenting on the obvious.
“I was really close to my dad. Especially close to him. He was my best friend,” I admit. “And his loss was really hard on me. So, although I know it’s the right thing . . . to let go of Rusty’s Wrecks . . . I’m just struggling.”
He nods, like he understands, although I’m not certain he can. If he didn’t have a tight relationship with his father, could he appreciate mine?
“Anyway. I know you’re just the messenger, and the sale isn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have reacted to you like I did.”
“It’s understandable. Change is hard. Painful even, sometimes.” His brown eyes are sympathetic, compassionate. “But thank you for sharing with me about your dad.”
“I just want you to know I’m sorry. And I also wanted you to know that I’m not a crybaby. I don’t know where all that emotion came from other than . . .” I wave toward my belly. “I can be a mess some days.”
“Just some?” He tilts his head, teasing me.
I point toward him with no heat. “Sounds like it’s time to put you to work in this kitchen.”
“That’s exactly what my grandmother would say when I was a kid.”
“Smart woman.”
He smiles fondly. “One of the best.” Then he claps his hands and rubs them together. “Okay. Dough time.”
Like everything else today, something as simple as making dough shouldn’t send crackles of energy sparking through my body.
But when Tate comes up behind me, setting his hands over mine on the old roller, my body reacts to his.
Again. He pushes that roller forward, causing his chest to gently tap my back, and then I pull the roller toward me, pressing my back against him.
The push and pull reminds me so much of sex, and for a brief second, I imagine Tate taking me in this position, bent over the island.
Then I shake my head.
Yet back and forth we work, stretching out that dough until it’s almost too thin, like my first batch.
When it looks flat and even, I scoop up the rolled dough with Tate’s hands beneath mine.
We set the dough in the pie tin, each taking a side to press the future crust against the sides, circling that tin until our fingers meet again.
I don’t look up at him, like it’s normal for all this finger brushing and energy crackling.
Tate takes over mixing the apples, brown sugar, and cinnamon, and I can’t pull my eyes from his forearms, working a spoon to blend the ingredients. The tightening of his tendons. The flex of his hand. The vein at his wrist.
If I were a vampire, I’d want to bite him there.
Oh, who am I kidding? I want a sip of him. A little suck of that delicate skin.
“Ready?” he asks, drawing my attention to his face, where his brown eyes match the cinnamon and look as warm as brown sugar.
To my surprise, he shoves his hands into the mixture, scooping out a handful to fill the pie.
Not exactly sanitary, but it looks like a helluva lot of fun, and I dig my fingers into the mixture as well.
Our fingers meet in the mix, and we laugh like naughty kids, scooping up the combination and dropping it in that pie dish.
Once full, we still have crust to layer over the top, but we stare at our hands, dripping with sticky apple pie filling.
Tate grabs my wrist and pulls it toward his mouth. “Let me have a taste. See if we got the combination correct.”
It’s a little late to realize we forgot something, or our portions weren’t accurate, but the second his mouth surrounds one of my fingers, all rational thought exits my brain.
His eyes lock on mine as he draws my finger to the back of his throat, then drags his closed lips down the length of my forefinger.
Too stunned to speak, I watch as he moves to my middle finger, repeating the drag and draw.
Holy fish sticks. I’m suddenly warm all over, and it has nothing to do with the heat of my small kitchen and the hot oven at our sides.
“Driver,” I whisper, choking on the nickname because I’m so turned on, I can’t think.
He lifts his other hand and sets his fingertip against my lip, pausing there. Leaving me with the decision.
Taste the forbidden fruit or not.
Hesitantly, I draw the tip of my tongue against the top of his finger. Tate closes his eyes, like it’s the most sensual thing he’s ever experienced. He moves on to my ring finger.
And I drag my lips down the length of his index.
He tastes like cinnamon, brown sugar, and apples, mingling with the spicy clove scent coming off his skin. He’s a full-on fall feast of aromas.
I shiver as I suck harder at his finger, before moving on to the next one, licking up the length, watching him watch my tongue.
He pauses a second. Eyes blown wide. Breath coming shallower, before he takes my pinky finger in his mouth.
His tongue twirls around it, reminding me how strong he is with that part of him. How determined he can be.
Let me make you come.
Just once, I’d said.
He smiled against my inner thigh before getting to work.
Suddenly, two fingers are in my mouth, and I’m sucking like I’m hooked on his flavor. Like I’m reeling him to me instead of the other way around, and Tate does come closer.
We stand as close as we can get with my belly in the way, and then he leans forward, like he wants a taste of those fingers while in my mouth. A taste of—
The oven timer goes off, startling both of us.
I jump back, and Tate stands there like he doesn’t recognize the sound.
“Ziti.” I swallow, the taste of him still filling my throat.
“Ziti,” he whispers, like it’s the sexiest word in the dictionary. Then he reaches for a hand towel, scrubs at his fingers, and uses his knuckle to tap the timer off. He steps toward the sink next.
And all the while I stand there, watching him scrub away the evidence that his fingers were in my mouth.
He reaches for my wrist, tugging me toward the sink, pulling my hands under the warm water.
But I can’t go another round of finger play.
If he washes my hands, using soap and suds, lathering me up, I’m going to combust. I’m going to beg him to do something to me he probably has no interest in doing with a pregnant woman.
Even if I am the mother of his future child.
Because I want my baby daddy to fuck me.
Instead, I gently pull my hands from his. “I got this,” I say, my voice shaky, matching the tremble in my knees. “You get the ziti.”
I nod toward the oven, then drop my gaze to the water rushing out of the faucet, where my eyes grow cloudy as I wash away the evidence that he ever had my fingers in his mouth.
Scrubbing, as if I can wash away this strange sensation of wanting him again.