Chapter 17 Fricassee
FRICASSEE
KAT
I can’t remember the last time I had done that. I’m in partial disbelief that my body and mind allowed me to do that. I lift my head and slowly look around, noticing that the other side of the bed is empty.
Glancing at my nightstand, I see a full glass of water, my cell phone, and my glasses all laid out neatly for me.
A freshly picked bunch of coastal rhododendrons also lay among the items. They are the exact same shade of pink as the one I had found on the ground by the French doors a week ago.
I had stuffed that one into one of my books to use as a bookmark, a habit I had adopted as a young teen.
I smile, plucking them from the nightstand and carrying them with me as I get up.
Nice touch, Zayn. Nice touch indeed.
Entering the ensuite bathroom, I lay my flowers on the counter and look up into the mirror.
I almost laugh at the reflection staring back at me.
My hair is a dark tangle of what can only be described as a rat’s nest. But my skin, however?
My skin is…. glowing. There is a fresh rosy color high on my cheeks and an unmistakable radiance coming from within that even the most expensive highlighter couldn’t replicate. It's that freshly fucked look.
I also spot several dark marks on my throat and peppered across my chest. Well, shit. I probably need some industrial-strength concealer for those bad boys.
After splashing some cold water on my face, I grab my wide toothed wooden comb and get to work on the mess that is my hair.
A dozen images and memories of last night come flooding back in a rush as I work the comb through my raven locks.
Zayn’s hands, his mouth, his dirty, filthy, honest words in my ear…
I lean forward, bracing my hands against the counter. I shake my head and mentally chastise myself, trying to regain some semblance of control over my wanton brain.
Ok Kat, you need to take a beat and pace yourself.
So, you fucked him. Or, rather, he fucked you.
That happened. And yes, it was magical and amazing and transcendent.
But you can’t get ahead of yourself here.
We don’t even know what Zayn is thinking or feeling.
I mean, after all, he left, didn’t he? Before you even woke up?
That probably means something. Like, that this isn’t a serious thing.
A booty call maybe. The start of something uncomplicated, casual. And casual is what I need right now.
So, thank God it’s not that serious.
____________________
ZAYN
It’s getting serious.
That was the best fucking sex of my life.
And we didn’t even come close to scratching the surface of what I knew we were capable of together.
My mind replays for the thousandth time this morning her sweet moans and cries from last night, for me, all for me.
The feeling of her velvety skin sliding beneath my fingers… fuck.
She was so amazing. So bold and so trusting. I had awakened in the middle of the night wanting her again. I looked down at her small form curled safely under my arm and kissed her forehead instead. She was so fucking sweet like that. Still, quiet, and at peace. For once.
Kat had desperately needed that sleep, and I couldn’t bring myself to deny her.
I feel a warm and growing sense of deep affection unfurl within my chest. Like a wildflower blooming open in the sun, embracing life itself.
If I was being honest, I was already in love with this woman.
I think I’d always loved her. It was just coming into sharper relief now.
I pull out a long spiny weed from my mother’s garden and try to mentally prepare to tell Katherine about the cameras.
I had disabled them before I went to Pearson House last night, but she still had the right to know they were there in the first place.
I had promised her that I would be up front with her, after all.
She will be pissed. But maybe if I kiss her just right, she’ll forgive me.
And as though triggered by that thought, another one drifts to the forefront of my brain.
That’s not all you’re not telling her, you fucking asshole.
My stomach grumbles with hunger, realizing I haven’t eaten since lunch time yesterday. I dispatch another massive weed and then grasp a bunch of green tufts, ripping a bunch of ripe carrots free from the earth.
These will go perfectly with my mother’s roast chicken.
And with another low rumble of my stomach, my plan solidifies. Everyone takes bad news better on a full stomach.
____________________
KAT
My key turns in the lock with a click, and I enter the foyer to Pearson House. Loud music blares throughout the house. It’s homey and comforting and somewhat familiar, but I don’t focus on it at first as I set down my bag and step out of my black suede heels.
The most delicious smell reaches my nose, and I pause for a moment, just breathing it in. For the first time entering Pearson House since my father died, I feel at home. After a moment or so, it dawns on me what song I’m hearing: Radiohead’s “Creep.”
How fitting, I think.
“Zayn?” I call out.
“Kitchen,” comes his deep voice in reply.
I round the corner and find him standing in my kitchen wearing a crisp, cream-colored apron that I have never seen before, the sleeves of his blue button-down shirt are rolled up, exposing his forearms and the many black fine lines of his tattoos.
He grins at me, with a look in his eyes that momentarily halts my breath.
Something delicious-smelling simmers on the stove behind him in one of the large, fancy ceramic pots that I never use.
Jesus Fucking Christ. The perfect man does exist. And he’s standing right here in my kitchen with Bundy lovingly twisting himself in between his legs.
“You cook too?” I ask, utterly incredulous at the sight of him.
He ignores my question and holds out a glass of chilled white wine.
His large hand is wrapped around the delicate stem of the glass, and I feel a thrill run down my spine and settle low in my belly.
I had been thinking about those hands of his and what they were capable of entirely too often over the past several days.
“Sit, baby. You must be hungry,” is Zayn’s only response.
I move to take a seat at the dining table and watch as he ladles out some of the contents of the pot into a shallow bowl and serves me.
“So, do I even need to give you a key at this point? Or have you just sort of unofficially moved in?”
Zayn chuckles under his breath and says, “I’ll leave whenever you ask me to, baby. But not before.”
I think about his response. At this moment, it is very difficult to imagine ever asking him to leave. Impossible, even.
I smile as I inhale the tantalizing smell of the food and seize my fork. I slide a mouthful of delicious roast chicken, tender mushrooms, and egg noodles into my mouth. The pasta is cooked perfectly al dente, and the creamy, salty sauce is decadent and silky on my tongue.
“Oh my god,” I say thickly around the mouthful. “What is this?”
“Chicken Fricassee,” he answers, “an old Bronwin family favorite.”
I nod. I was so curious about his family. He hasn’t spoken about them very much yet.
“The carrots were harvested fresh from my mother’s garden just this morning,” Zayn continues, “and the potatoes as well.”
I hold up a piece of carrot on my fork and give Zayn a radiant smile, absolutely moaning into my next bite. The meal is so flavorful, warm, and comforting.
It’s exactly what I need after a long day. I shift slightly in my seat, unsettled by the quiet question rising in my brain: Do I even deserve something this good?
I take another bite, then pause as a realization hits me with startling force—I can't remember the last time someone cooked for me. Not in over a decade. Probably my dad. He used to make breakfast for Rae and me on the weekends on slow Saturday mornings.
The memory stirs something deep. My eyes begin to prick and burn, an ache rising at the back of my throat. I didn’t expect this. But it’s here all the same.
“Thank you,” I say, swallowing the emotion building in my throat. I try to infuse a lot of tenderness and gratitude into my voice.
“You’re welcome, baby.” Zayn nods.
He watches me eat and gently inclines his head to the side as if he knows there is something on my mind. I meet his eyes and open my mouth, then close it again. Zayn just waits patiently, allowing me the time and space to say more, if I want to.
“Something on your mind, baby?” he inquires gently.
“I-I found something out the other night,” I begin. Zayn meets my eyes.
“It’s sort of why I was in the city in the first place. And why I went to the bar afterward and then tried to walk to Bea’s place.”
“Okay,” Zayn states patiently.
“I found something in my father’s closet, and it, it turns out…” I trail off.
“What did you find?” Zayn asks sharply.
“A… toxicology report. It showed a host of medications that were found in my father’s system when he died. You see, he was sick before he died. He had cancer.”
Looking down, I take a small sip of my wine. I hadn’t told Bea any of this on the night of the attack. I didn’t quite know how to. But as with everything with Zayn so far, it just came so naturally. So easily.
I tentatively glance back up and see Zayn regarding me over the top of his own glass of wine, which remains untouched. Again, he gives me space to say more if I want to.
I exhale a long breath and launch in. “He had pancreatic cancer. He knew that he was going to die. I guess… I guess he was in a fair amount of pain. He wanted to end it on his terms. Hence the suicide,” I finish lamely.
Zayn leans forward, his eyes trailing over my face.
He seems to be on the verge of saying something.
His mouth opens, and then closes, before he subtly shakes his head back and forth.
A low hum emanates from the back of his throat, and he leaves his chair to come to my side.
He kneels there before me and takes my hand in his.
“I’m so sorry, Katherine,” he begins, “this must be tough news to process.”
“It is,” I choke out, swallowing down the hysteria I’ve been holding at bay ever since the night of the attack.
“It really is,” I continue, on the verge of sobbing now, “because what does it mean, Zayn? What does it mean that my own father didn’t trust me enough to tell me this? To share this with me and allow me to help him? I would have! I could have even…” I trail off, as hot tears streak down my cheeks.
Zayn’s thumbs stroke them away before they can fall.
“You couldn’t have saved him, Kat.” His voice is quiet.
My eyes narrow as I look over his face. He was right, of course. But his words do nothing to assuage the flicker of anger that burns inside of me.
“I could have fucking tried!” I cry.
Zayn’s lips flatten to a thin line. He takes the wine glass from my hands and sets it down on the table. He exhales slowly.
“I don’t know why your father didn’t trust you with this, Katherine.
My best guess would be that he didn’t want to burden you with it, worry you unnecessarily.
Make your life harder. But listen to me: I trust you, baby.
Inherently. With every decision. With my life, even.
I wonder what it would be like for you to practice that same self-trust. To step forward and make your decisions with confidence. ”
I peer up at him through watery eyes. My fingers find the hem of my sweater and pick at a loose strand there.
“You doubt those around you as a way to protect yourself. That’s why you keep others at a distance, and don’t let them in. Maybe this is a chance for you to trust more, and often, regardless of the outcome.”
He regards me tenderly and waits. Again, he seems to be on the verge of saying something more. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he simply clasps our hands together in my lap.
“Could you practice trusting in this?” he asks, squeezing our joined hands together. And then he smiles at me, taking my face in his hand.
I sniff as I look down at our intertwined fingers. A rush of warmth floods my chest. I feel myself nod yes before I make the conscious decision to.
“Maybe you should be the therapist,” I tease, returning his smile.
“Baby, you are my therapy,” he says, kissing my forehead.
I let loose a long sigh. He was right, again, about all of it. He saw me accurately. Knew my flaws, knew me. I’m curious what Dad would have thought of Zayn. I get the distinct impression he would have liked him very much. They were similar. Steady. A striking coincidence.
Feeling better having finally shared, I reach over and scoop up another delicious mouthful of the food he prepared for us.
God, I could get used to this.
Zayn grins. “Okay, baby. Finish up your meal and come meet me in the shower in ten minutes.” He leans forward into my space as he adds with a whisper, “I’m going to press you up against the tile and lick you until you scream.
” I choke on my sip of wine, laughing nervously until I meet his eyes once again.
His expression betrays no sense of humor or joking. Instead, his gaze darkens, and an electric zing runs down my spine.
“I’m serious baby. I’ve waited all day to fuck you and I won’t wait much longer. Ten minutes.”
Jesus Christ. I wasn’t saying no to that.
____________________
An hour later, I emerge dripping wet and satisfied from the steamy shower with Zayn. As I towel off, Zayn’s hands wrap around my torso. I lean into his touch, still in disbelief that I’ve let this man into my home and life as quickly as I have.
Although, I suppose that I had less allowed him in, so much as he had come in swinging like a wrecking ball, knocking down every single defense I had in place to keep others out.
I lean into his touch, savoring the feel of him. Desire swirls low in my belly.
“Hey Zayn?” I ask, turning toward him.
“Yeah, Doc?”
“Tomorrow night, I want to spend the night at your place.”
“My place?” he asks.
“Mhmm,” I reply. “I want to actually see where you grew up, and I want to spend some time together there.”
Zayn pauses a moment as he considers my request. My guess is that like me, he didn’t often invite people into his private inner sanctum.
A lone black cat, through and through, I think.
However, after a moment, he reaches out and tucks a lock of wet hair behind my ear. “You got it, baby,” he responds.
A smile spreads across my face, honest and unguarded—easily more genuine than any I’ve worn in years. The warmth of that smile glows within me, a quiet flame—promising so much more.