Chapter 1 #2
I told her pasta would be easy, something simple with the fresh vegetables and the bottle of red wine already waiting on the counter.
She nodded and started washing the vegetables while I filled a pot with water.
We worked side by side at the island. Every time she moved I was aware of it.
The way her shoulder brushed mine when she leaned in to grab the salt.
The soft scent of her lotion rising between us.
The way the oversized sweater kept slipping farther down her arm until the upper curve of one breast was almost visible.
I kept my eyes on the knife in my hand and the tomatoes I was chopping, but my body was already reacting, a slow heat building under my skin.
She glanced up at me once and her cheeks flushed a light pink when she realized how close we were standing.
She didn’t step back. Instead she stayed right there, her hip nearly touching mine, and asked if I wanted her to open the wine.
I said yes. She found the corkscrew and worked the cork free with a soft pop.
The sound seemed louder than it should have in the quiet cabin.
She poured two glasses and handed one to me, her fingers brushing mine as she passed it over.
The contact lasted only a second, but it sent a clear spark up my arm.
I took a drink and set the glass down, then turned back to the stove to check the water.
She stayed beside me, close enough that I could feel every small shift of her body.
When the pasta went into the pot she leaned against the counter and watched me, one bare foot crossed over the other, the soft shorts riding a little higher on her thighs.
I let my eyes travel the length of her legs before I could stop myself.
She noticed. I saw the way her breathing changed, the soft rise of her chest under the sweater.
Neither of us said anything about it. The silence between us was thick but not awkward.
It was charged. I stirred the sauce and she set the table near the windows, the two places close together so we would both face the view of the darkening valley.
Outside the light was fading fast, the trees turning to silhouettes against the last gold of the sky.
When everything was ready we carried the plates over and sat down.
The fire crackled behind us. She took a sip of her wine and looked at me over the rim of the glass.
“This is nice,” she said quietly. “Being here with you.” I met her eyes and felt the pull again, stronger this time.
“Yeah,” I answered, my voice lower than I meant it to be.
“It is.” We ate slowly. The conversation stayed light on the surface, but underneath it something else was building.
Every time she leaned forward the sweater slipped another fraction of an inch.
Every time she crossed her legs the soft sound of skin against skin reached me.
I kept my hands on the table and my eyes mostly on my plate, but I was aware of her the entire time.
When we finished she stood and gathered the plates.
I followed her back to the kitchen. We washed the dishes together in the same close silence, our hands brushing in the soapy water more than once.
Each touch lingered a little longer than it needed to.
When the last plate was set in the rack she turned and leaned her hip against the counter, looking up at me.
The firelight from the other room reached us here, painting her skin in soft gold.
Her lips were slightly parted. I could have closed the small distance between us in one step.
I wanted to. Instead I reached past her for the wine bottle and refilled both our glasses, using the motion to put a little space back between our bodies.
She accepted the glass with another small smile and walked back toward the couch in front of the fire.
I watched the way her hips moved under the soft shorts, the bare backs of her thighs, the gentle sway of her body.
My hands tightened around my own glass. I told myself to stay in the kitchen a minute longer.
To breathe. To remember who she was. But the heat under my skin was already past the point of easy control, and the night was still young.
I followed her to the couch after the kitchen was clean and the last of the dishes were put away.
The fire had burned down to a steady bed of coals and bright flames that threw soft moving light across the rug and the low table.
She curled up on one end of the deep sofa with her legs tucked under her, the soft shorts riding high on her thighs, the oversized sweater still slipping off one shoulder.
I sat on the other end and left a careful space between us even though every part of me wanted to close it.
She held her wine glass loosely in one hand and watched the flames.
I watched her. The way the firelight caught on the curve of her collarbone.
The slow rise and fall of her chest under the thin fabric.
The bare stretch of her legs that seemed to go on forever in the low light.
She turned her head after a minute and found me looking.
Her cheeks colored, but she did not look away.
Instead she took a small sip of wine and shifted a little closer, the movement so slight it could have been an accident.
It was not. The conversation started soft.
She asked about the cabin, about how many years my wife and I had come here, about the best trails and the quietest mornings.
I answered carefully, keeping my voice steady even as my eyes kept drifting back to the exposed skin of her shoulder and the soft place where her neck met her throat.
She listened and nodded and every so often she would lean forward to set her glass down or reach for the bottle, and each time the sweater slipped farther until the upper swell of her breast was visible in the firelight.
I forced myself to look at the flames instead.
It did not help. The heat under my skin only grew.
She refilled both our glasses without asking and when she handed mine back our fingers touched and stayed touching a second longer than necessary.