9. Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Abigail
T he smell of rich, meaty ragù draws me to the kitchen, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight that greets me when I push open the door. It’s chaos. Flour dusts the countertops, streaks the floor, and even forms faint handprints on the fridge. Used bowls and utensils are scattered everywhere, and there’s a wooden chair wedged near the stove where Layla clearly stood to stir something.
But then I spot Layla’s beaming face, her eyes dancing with excitement, and Jon’s small, proud smile as he sets down the final plate. My annoyance dissolves instantly. Mess or not, the joy radiating from them makes my heart feel full.
“Well,” I say, leaning on the doorframe with mock seriousness. “This kitchen looks like it’s been hit by a tornado, but I suppose if the food’s as good as it smells, I can overlook it.”
Layla claps her hands. “Mum, you’re going to love it! Doctor Jon and I made it all ourselves! ”
Jon’s gaze flicks up to meet mine, a faint blush creeping along his cheeks. “She was a very enthusiastic sous chef,” he says, his tone laced with dry humour.
I smile warmly at both of them. “I can see that. Shall we taste this masterpiece, then?”
We settle at the table, and I take a bite of the pasta. It’s incredible—perfectly tender fettuccine paired with the most flavourful ragù I’ve had in years. “Jon, this is amazing,” I say, genuinely impressed. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
Layla perks up between bites, her fork wobbling dangerously in her small hand. “He’s the best cook, Mum! And I helped! I stirred the sauce and made the pasta.”
“You did an excellent job,” I say, ruffling her hair. “Both of you.”
Jon shifts slightly, looking pleased but also a touch bashful. “It’s nothing fancy,” he says, brushing off the compliment.
“Fancy or not, it’s delicious,” I insist. “I might just hire you both as my new chefs.”
Layla giggles, a piece of pasta dangling from her fork. “Doctor Jon, you can’t leave now! Mum needs you to cook every night.”
Jon chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I think your mum does just fine on her own.”
Layla keeps us entertained throughout dinner, chattering animatedly about her day at school. She tells us about her teacher, her best friend Lily, and a boy named Ethan who got his shoelaces stuck in the radiator. Jon listens with an amused expression, no more Mr Grumpy.
When the plates are empty, Layla leans back in her chair, sighing dramatically. “That was the best dinner ever. ”
“Glad you liked it,” Jon says, smirking.
“You’d better go run your bath,” I tell Layla gently, standing to collect the dishes. “And don’t forget to actually use soap this time.”
Layla huffs but obeys, skipping out of the kitchen while humming a little tune.
As I start to gather the dishes, Jon moves to help. “You don’t have to do that,” I protest.
“I made the mess. I’ll help clean it,” he says simply, already stacking plates. His tone leaves no room for argument, so I don’t bother trying. First, I check on Layla and when I'm reassured that she is taking her bath seriously I head back to give Jon a hand.
We work side by side, the sound of running water and clinking dishes filling the space between us. Every so often, our shoulders brush, and I feel a warmth creep into my chest that has nothing to do with the kitchen’s lingering heat.
“Thank you,” I say quietly after a moment. “For tonight. Layla had a wonderful time.”
Jon glances at me, his lips curving into a faint smile. “No, I have to say thank you. She made sure I had a great time.”
For a moment, the chaos of the kitchen fades away, and it’s just the two of us standing there. A subtle shift in the air leaves me wondering if there’s more to say—but before I can figure it out, Jon turns back to the dishes, resuming the work like nothing happened.
Layla storms into the kitchen in her unicorn pyjamas, her wet hair plastered to her cheeks and a hairbrush clutched tightly in her little fist. The moment shatters the fragile bubble that had formed between Jon and me, the subtle tension of something unspoken lingering in the air. Her arrival is like a gust of wind through an open window—abrupt but innocent.
Jon steps back slightly, his gaze shifting to the intruder. His smile softens, and for a brief moment, I see a flicker of something in his eyes that I can’t read.
“Mummy, can you brush my hair? It’s all tangly,” Layla announces dramatically, brandishing the hairbrush like a weapon.
I laugh, the sound breaking the awkwardness lingering in the room. “Of course, love. Let’s go upstairs.”
But Layla isn’t done. She turns her attention to Jon, giving him an exaggerated pout. “Goodnight, Doctor Jon,” she says sweetly, as though they’ve been best friends for years.
Jon crouches slightly to meet her eye level, his voice gentle as he replies, “Goodnight, Sunshine.”
Layla’s brow furrows in curiosity, and she tilts her head. “Why do you call me Sunshine?”
His answer is quiet but sincere, the kind of response that catches me off guard. “Because you and your mum brought a little sunshine into my life.”
I swallow hard, warmth blooming in my chest. Layla beams at him, completely unaware of the weight behind his words. “That’s nice,” she says simply, before slipping her hand into mine. “Let’s go, Mummy.”
I give Jon a look over my shoulder, something between gratitude and disbelief. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a softness that wasn’t there before. Something I don’t quite know what to do with.
As we settle into her room, I sit on the edge of her bed, brushing her hair in slow, gentle strokes. Layla chatters on about the pasta-making, recounting every moment with wide-eyed enthusiasm. But then after I finish drying her hair, she drops the bombshell.
“Doctor Jon should stay forever,” she says dreamily. “He’s so nice, and he’s funny, and he cooks better than you.”
I let out a soft laugh, though her words make my chest tighten. “He’s a very nice man,” I agree, keeping my tone light. “But you know he’s only here for a little while. He’s a guest.”
Layla’s face falls slightly, her little nose scrunching. “But why can’t he stay? We have lots of room.”
“Because he has his own home to go back to,” I explain, carefully weaving the braid. “He’s not like Auntie Nancy who lives nearby. He’s just visiting.”
Layla frowns, her hands clutching her quilt. “But what if he doesn’t want to go home?”
I pause, searching for the right words. “Sometimes grown-ups have things they need to do, even if they like where they are. Doctor Jon has a life in London, and we have our life here. That’s just how it is.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her lips pursed in thought. Then she sighs heavily, as if resigning herself to a great injustice. “Okay. But can he still have dinner with us every night until he leaves?”
I smile, brushing a kiss against her temple. “We’ll see, sweetheart. Now, into bed.”
Layla wriggles under the covers, her small body curling up as I tuck her in. “Goodnight, Mummy.”
“Goodnight, my love,” I whisper, turning off the light and leaving the door ajar just enough to let the hallway glow spill in .
As I walk back downstairs, Layla’s words linger in my mind. She’s taken to Jon so quickly, and I can’t deny the warmth he’s brought into the house. But it’s a delicate line to walk—letting her enjoy his presence without letting her grow too attached. After all, Jon Peterson isn’t staying forever.
And neither, I remind myself, should I want him to.
When I return to the kitchen, Jon’s still there, the room tidied up and quieter now. He’s sitting at the table, two steaming mugs of tea and two generous slices of coffee cake set out neatly. I pause in the doorway, the scene unexpected but oddly comforting.
“Coffee cake?” I ask, stepping inside.
He glances up and offers a small smile. “I thought Layla wouldn’t go for it, so I didn’t bring it out after dinner. But you mentioned earlier this week it’s your favourite.”
I blink, caught off guard by the thoughtfulness of the gesture. “You remembered that?”
He shrugs, his gaze flicking briefly to the table. “Seemed worth remembering.”
I sit down, the warmth of the tea comforting against my fingers as I cradle the mug. The coffee cake looks so yummy. I let out a little laugh, half-embarrassed. “With my curves, I really shouldn’t.”
The words slip out before I think better of it. I don’t usually dwell on my size—I’ve come to terms with it over the years, learned to love my body for what it is. But every so often, a flicker of self-doubt creeps in, especially when I’m around someone like Jon. A man who seems, by all accounts, like the type who’d be better suited to someone thinner, more polished.
Jon’s eyes narrow slightly, his voice firm but not unkind. “Don’t say that.”
I glance at him, surprised by the quiet intensity in his tone.
“There’s nothing wrong with your curves,” he continues, his gaze steady on mine. “On the contrary.”
His words land softly but powerfully, unravelling the thread of doubt in my mind. I let out a shaky laugh, brushing my hair behind my ear. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“It’s not kindness,” he says, cutting a forkful of his own cake. “It’s the truth. And if I ever hear you putting yourself down like that again, I’ll… well, I’ll may just have to spank that delicious round arse of yours.”
I gasp but then burst out laughing, the sound easing the tension I didn’t realise had built in my chest. “You wouldn’t dare.”
His lips quirk into a smirk. “Try me.”
After we had another long chat where he told me about his colleagues from the trip, those that survived and the driver that lost his life, we clear our dishes away.
Jon steps up behind me as I rinse the last plate and slides his arms around my hips.
“Didn’t someone need to get shown how much I love these curves,” he whispers huskily.
"I think you'd better show me then," I tease back, leaning against him and wiggling my bum slightly .
His hands tighten on my waist for a moment before he lets go, stepping away from me with an almost regretful expression.
"Come on upstairs," he says softly. "I want to make you feel good."
I can't help but shiver at the intensity in his eyes and nod silently at him, leaving the dishes half-washed in my eagerness to follow him out of the kitchen. We reach the landing and Jon glances over his shoulder at me with a knowing smile before pushing open the door to my bedroom.
The minute the door clicks shut behind us, Jon's strong arms wrap around me from behind and I gasp as he nuzzles my neck. His lips brush over my sensitive flesh as he murmurs against me.
"Do you know how fucking sexy you are, Abby?" he asks huskily. "All these curves... all mine."
A moan escapes my lips at his words, desire flooding through me. It's been too long since I've felt this desired, this wanted.
"Take off your clothes," he growls.
My heart races as I quickly strip off my clothes, tossing them aside haphazardly. Jon watches with hungry eyes, drinking in every inch of my bare skin on display for him.
"Fuck," he groans appreciatively. "You're perfect."
He steps back for a moment to shed his own clothes, and I'm treated to the sight of his hard, muscular body before me. My mouth waters with anticipation, craving his touch.
He takes off his glasses and places them on the chest of drawers. Fuck, he’s hot with the glasses, but when he takes them off, it makes me downright giddy. It’s like a Superman moment—he transforms from a grumpy doctor into my own personal bedroom god.
“Can you see without them?” The minute the words are out, I want to kick myself. What a stupid question to ask, Abby!
“Don’t worry, Sunshine, I can see all of your beauty. Glasses or no glasses,” he growls. Fuck, that’s hot!
Jon crosses the room to me in a few long strides, his hands cupping my face as he claims my lips in a searing kiss. I melt into him, all thoughts and worries of the outside world dissipating as I lose myself in the sensations.
His hands roam over my body, exploring every curve and dip with a possessiveness that sends shivers down my spine. He breaks our kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along my jawline and down my neck, leaving a fiery trail in his wake.
His fingers explore the entrance to my pussy and I just know that I am wet. "Fuck," he groans again. "So fucking ready for me."
He drops to his knees before me, parting my legs eagerly as he buries his face between them. His tongue flicks against my swollen clit and I moan loudly at the exquisite sensation.
"Oh god," I gasp. "Yes!"
Jon's hands grip onto my hips tightly as he devours me, his tongue moving with practiced precision. The way he expertly teases and taunts sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through me, each one stronger than the last.
I'm teetering on the edge of bliss when Jon abruptly pulls away, leaving me empty and needy for more. He stands up and grins at me mischievously.
"Not yet," he says huskily. "I have other plans for you. "
My heart thuds in anticipation as Jon leads me over to the bed, pushing me down onto the firm mattress.
"Spread your legs for me," he orders, his voice dripping with authority.
I comply instantly, eager to please him in any way I can. Jon's fingers dip into my wetness and he groans appreciatively.
He positions himself between my thighs and slowly pushes into me, inch by agonizing inch until I'm completely filled by him. A moan escapes both our lips at the exquisite sensation of being joined together once more.
Jon sets a slow and torturous pace, each thrust driving me closer to the edge but never quite pushing me over it. He watches intently as I shudder under him, his gaze hot enough to burn through me.
"That's it," he encourages gruffly. "Let go for me."
With one final deep thrust, Jon sends us both hurtling over the edge into bliss. Waves of pleasure crash over us as we come undone together, our bodies moving in perfect synchrony.
As our breathing finally starts to slow down and our heartbeats return to normal, Jon collapses onto the bed beside me.
"I needed this," he admits softly. "Needed to get lost in you."
His words break my heart a little for him, yet at the same time, they fill me with joy that I could give this to him. I snuggle in closer to him, feeling more connected than ever… and that’s exactly what I was worried about.