F O R T Y T H R E E
- Avery -
I t had been an idyllic weekend. The lake shimmered with sunshine all day, and the sparkling light peeked often through the bushy branches of the tall, skinny pine trees. Oliver grilled all our meals while I sat by the water. Herons fished in the morning. Ducklings waddled and waded by in the afternoon. And in the evenings, a chorus of crickets sang so incessantly it felt as if they were worshipping the moonlight.
It was so refreshing to get out of the city, and I was grateful we squeezed the trip in, even though our time here felt like it went way too fast. Oliver assured me we could return soon, but I feared it might be a while. This was one of the last free weekends I was going to have for the foreseeable with Grace’s wedding activities ramping up. Fortunately, Oliver’s extensive connections had already saved me a ton of time and stress.
“Did Grace decide which of the catering companies she’s going with?” Oliver asked, dropping a bundle of freshly chopped logs next to the firepit.
“I thought you were sick of talking about wedding stuff?”
“I am,” he said. “Deathly. But I’m still curious.”
“I don’t think she’s picked yet,” I said, watching him stoke the fire before adding two logs.
“Regardless of who she goes ahead with, tell her to skip the salmon,” he said. “It’ll save her a fortune.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “It’s wasted on people, trust me. The kind of people who order salmon at weddings will happily order chicken.”
“What about vegetarians?”
“They’ll be pleased with pasta.” He sat on the cushioned garden chair across from me and reached in the cooler, cracking the lid off a beer.
“What about people who don’t eat gluten?”
“Which kind of people who don’t eat gluten?” he asked. “The kind who secretly love an excuse to enjoy gluten or the kind who are genuinely allergic and always armed with their own gluten-free snacks anyway?”
“Fair point. Plus, now that I’m thinking about it, I’d be surprised if Grace has any friends who are super strict about gluten considering how much she smells of baked goods all the time.”
He wiped some sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. “So much for showering earlier.”
“I like you sweaty.”
His eyes flicked up at me, full of a hunger that could only mean one thing since we’d already had dinner.
I pretended not to notice just for the fun of it. “I heard a rumor you and Noah are going to ride bikes together soon.”
“It’s called cycling,” he said, amusement lifting his expression. “If you’re over nine.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It’s not. It’s going to be brutal,” he said. “I can already tell by the questions he’s asked that the guy doesn’t do anything by halves.”
“What kind of questions has he asked?”
He shrugged. “They’ve mostly been about what kind of gear he needs.”
“By ‘gear’ do you mean bike shorts?”
“Among other things.”
If Noah looked half as hot in bike shorts as Oliver did, Grace was going to owe me big for this. “I have to admit, I’m surprised how much the idea of you guys beating your chests together before pedaling towards the horizon in tight shorts really delights me.”
“Whatever turns you on, babe.” He took a swig of his beer before offering it to me. “You want to try this one?”
“What is it?” I asked, turning the green and yellow label towards me.
“It’s a citrus IPA.”
“Citrus, you say?” I hadn’t found an IPA I liked yet, but being with Oliver made me want to experience everything. My face scrunched as I swallowed.
“The grapefruit’s not coming through for you?”
“No,” I said, taking a sip of my white wine to wash the bitterness away. “The grapefruit did not come through.”
He stared into the fire for a minute, and I stayed silent, letting the soft crackling sound fill the space around us.
“I’m glad we got away,” he said finally. “You were even more fun in the hot tub than I anticipated.”
I thought back to how irresistible he looked relaxing in the glowing jacuzzi while endless bubbles bounced off his hard body.
It seemed the memory energized him, too, because he knelt down to mess with the fire and mumbled, “White bikinis should be illegal.”
I was pleased to know I wasn’t the only one who’d never look at that bikini the same way again. “Wait—did you just growl?”
He glanced up at me out of the corner of his eye. “I’m just excited for s’more.”
I laughed. “You nailed that.”
His eyes sparkled with satisfaction.
The promise of s’mores made my mouth water, and it occurred to me that we didn’t have anything like that on the bakery menu. “We should do a s’mores-inspired something at the café. I bet that would be a huge hit.”
He sat back in his chair. “Sounds like a great idea.”
I drummed my fingertips against my chin, contemplating whether a cookie or brownie would work better. After all, if I was going to make a suggestion that could trigger one of Grace’s infamous week-long bake-a-thon benders, the least I could do was have a clear vision. Fortunately, I had plenty of time to think about it since I wouldn’t dream of suggesting she develop a new dessert before the wedding. She and Kayleigh and I always gained weight during her extended tasting tournaments, and Grace already confided in me that she wanted to feel fit for the big day.
I shared her sentiment, but I doubted Oliver would even notice if I put on a pound or two. He seemed to think the more of me there was to appreciate, the better, which was sweet. He always touched my body like he was in awe of it, and it felt amazing to receive that kind of affection.
“Speaking of good ideas,” Oliver asked. “Any update on your tea service idea?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re going to trial it. Only downside is that I have to work Sunday afternoons until I can prove the concept.” I’d been putting off telling him since Sunday afternoons had become one of our favorite times to hang out.
Not that we got up to much. Simba’s enthusiasm for ribbon chasing plateaued years ago, apparently, and my ability to play the drums was still non-existent. That said, I could finally appreciate the appeal of banging on them from time to time. I was particularly fond of the cymbal, and Oliver had gone out of his way to teach me a few techniques that made me feel like I was playing, even though I sounded absolutely horrendous if he turned off the backing music.
“I really think you’re on to something with that,” he said, talking to the fire. “Might even consider creating a cookbook.”
“A cookbook? Tea service doesn’t really require much cooking.”
“That’s the beauty of it.”
I wasn’t convinced.
“It’s only a suggestion,” he said. “But it’s kind of an intriguing idea, if you think about it. It would basically be the opposite of my dad’s cookbook, which is for advanced home cooks who want to use complicated ingredients.”
“Maybe you have a point.”
“It could even be for kids,” he said, still thinking out loud. “I don’t know. I think there’s something there.”
“Well, I really appreciate you being supportive. I know it cuts into our time together.”
“I’m sure we can still find time to work on our crosswords.”
“Our crosswords?”
He dropped his voice to a whisper. “That was a code word.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I figured.”
He pulled the marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers from the cooler.
“Thanks for asking me up here, Oliver. I’ve had a really good time.”
“I’m so glad,” he said. “It’s a nice place. Even nicer when it’s shared.”
“You said you came up here a lot as a kid,” I said, the questions I’d been curious about all weekend fighting for space on my tongue. “But what about as an adult?”
He turned to look at me. “Are you asking if I’ve brought other women up here?”
Is that so terrible?
“I haven’t, actually,” he said, sticking the tips of the marshmallow roasting rods in the fire
“Not even your ex?” I asked, unable to help myself.
“No,” he said. “I did ask her once, but she declined. Said she didn’t really care for bugs or the elements.”
“That must’ve been disappointing.”
“It was,” he said. “But only because it was before we experienced real disappointment.”
I swallowed, unsure what the right thing to say was.
He stared into the flickering fire for a moment before breaking the silence. “It is what it is, though.” He pierced a puffy marshmallow on the end of each skewer. “Everything happens for a reason.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Don’t I have to?” he asked. “Don’t we all have to?”
“Why do you think we met?”
He handed me a marshmallow roasting rod.
“If everything happens for a reason?”
He lowered his marshmallow over the fire. “Because you bring out the king in me.”
I angled my body towards him, willing him to elaborate.
“I was a frustrated jester before you came along. Didn’t know what kind of kingdom I wanted to have, what kind of legacy. I was driven but drifting.”
“And now?”
He swept his palm across the scene before us like we were in a tower overlooking a vast, rolling countryside. “Now, I’m a king.”
I cocked my head. “What makes you a king?”
He locked his eyes on mine. “The fact that I have a queen.”
My heart smiled. “Is it that simple?”
He nodded. “A queen is all it takes. A queen is what makes a man feel like a king. She’s what inspires him to behave like one. She’s the reason he takes stock of his kingdom and sets out to improve upon it.”
“Sounds like a lot of pressure. Being someone’s queen.”
“Not if you do it right,” he said. “If you do it right, it should be fun.”
I pressed my lips together.
“So if being my queen stops being fun at any point, you have to tell me.” He rotated his slightly golden marshmallow over the flames, revealing the fact that this wasn’t his first rodeo.
I dangled mine over the crackling fire. “So far, so fun,” I admitted.
“For me, too,” he said, his dark eyes finding mine.
And as he held my gaze, I felt held all over, as warmed through and weightless as a roasting marshmallow myself. And as my heart swelled with happiness, I swear I wouldn’t have been surprised to reach up and find I was wearing a crown.
Because I truly felt like a queen.
His queen.
Long may we reign.