27. Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
Landon sets his jaw and nods as though shoring himself up. I reach across the space between us, and I take Landon’s hand.
Stephen gets into the driver’s seat, adjusts the mirror to see me, and then he pulls away from the curb.
Landon, bless him, managed to fall asleep in the car. My anxiety was through the roof, and he fell asleep. Stephen carries him in and lays him on the couch when we arrive. As he’s getting Landon settled with a blanket, I explore.
It’s clear Stephen cleaned the place, stocked up on groceries, and, when I get to the bedroom, that he put fresh sheets on the two single beds that his parents once slept on.
When I run my hand along the pillowcase, the texture is familiar. Stephen arrives to lean against the doorframe, watching me.
“Are these Franza sheets?” Petra and Paul Franza branched out into home décor a couple of years ago, and I’ve become addicted to their sheet sets.
“That’s what you had at your house, and I remember how particular you used to be about your thread count,” he says.
“You bought Franza sheets just for us?” They aren’t cheap.
“Is that really so surprising, Ava?”
It is and it isn’t. This is the Stephen I spent eight years with—the one who’d do literally anything to please me.
I was such an idiot not to appreciate that at the time.
I could claim I had no one to compare him to, and that would be true.
Brief affairs with other men that never went anywhere.
Maybe I couldn’t acknowledge it back then, but some part of me knew what I had with him, couldn’t help seeking it out over and over.
For whatever reason, I wasn’t ready for him like I should have been, like I wish I was.
“Couldn’t have you sleeping on my parents’ old castoffs.” He shrugs like his thoughtfulness and care is nothing.
But those traits are everything. He didn’t buy just any new sheets; he bought the ones he knew I preferred.
“I never, for one instant, deserved you,” I say, my voice thick.
“Jesus, Ava. You don’t measure love by who deserves what. Love’s not a tally sheet or a checks-and-balances accounting venture.”
“How in the world did you ever love me? Explain it to me like I’m five.”
“How did I ever love you?” He raises his eyebrows, surprise coating his expression. “I can’t imagine a world in which I didn’t love you, and even if I could, I wouldn’t want to live there. In those eight years, I can’t think of a single thing I’d change.”
“Not even the ending?” I challenge.
“Maybe the ending,” he concedes. “Maybe the ending.” He holds out his hand to me. “Come on, let me feed you some real food.”
“Real food?” I ask, letting my hand get engulfed in his. “Like what?”
“I bought those pot stickers you used to love. Figured I could cook those up for you.”
I sandwich his hand with my other one, clinging to him as we walk down the short hallway. Joy fills my chest. “Are you going to play chef?”
He spins me at the entrance to the kitchen and cages me to the wall with his body.
His hands are on either side of me, and his biceps pop out of his T-shirt.
Everything about his height and breadth makes me feel tiny, but I’ve never felt threatened.
Cared for. Always just cared for. Desire surges, and I’m on the verge of panting.
If I could pant without wincing in pain.
“I would be your chef,” he says. “For a price.”
A slow smile spreads. God, we used to play this game all the time. “Are we going to barter, Officer Foster?”
“Fuck,” he mutters, his gaze falling to my lips. “I forgot how much I used to like hearing you call me that.”
“What do you want in exchange for these world-famous pot stickers, Officer Foster?” I give him a saucy smile. “Cause I’m willing to play dirty.”
His pot stickers were my favorite late-night snack at his old apartment whenever I turned up there drunk at stupid o’clock in the morning.
He’d crawl out of bed to make them for me no matter what time I arrived.
While he cooked, I’d tease him and taunt him, turning the foreplay up along with the heat of the pan.
His recipe is one I’ve never been able to replicate despite asking our personal chef several times to try just once more.
Those nights with Stephen, when I finished my snack, the sticky, delicious sauce went to places that would scandalize half of Bellerive.
Back then, sex with Stephen was all kinds of things, but it was never boring, never routine. Thrilling. Breathtaking. And most of all, orgasmic.
“As tempting as that is, no bartering tonight,” he says, kissing my temple and stepping away. “You’re recovering from surgery, and you’ve still got broken ribs. We can barter another day.” He gives my ass a light tap as he steps around me.
“You’re such a tease!” I complain as I follow him into the kitchen.
“Finally,” he says, throwing up his hands in mock victory, “it’s me for once.”
That makes me laugh, which causes my chest to ache with a reminder, and I wince.
“How’s that surgery feeling right about now?” he asks.
“Not great,” I admit, “but I’m alive, so I’ll take it.”
The smile slips off his face, and he nods. “You’re alive,” he agrees. “I’ll take that too. Free pot stickers for you. No additional payment needed.”
I settle into one of the kitchen chairs to watch him, and I realize I haven’t felt this light, this sure that I’ve somehow landed in the right place, in years.