Chapter 7 #2
“Count on it.”
I love that she just says what she wants. The last few years haven’t left a whole lot of time for dating, but the last woman I went out with would never say what she preferred. She deferred to me on everything.
Her name was Annie, and we went out for a few weeks last year. She was pretty. Easy to be with. And she smelled great. But everything we did was up to me. Where we went. What we ate. Hell, even how we kissed. Whenever I’d ask for her choice, she’d say, “Whatever you want.”
At first, I thought she was just really easy going.
But a few dates in, I started to notice that after she’d say whatever you want, she’d get quiet when I picked something she didn’t enjoy.
But she wouldn’t say anything. Not I don’t like heist movies, or I’d prefer pizza instead of Chinese, or I don’t like having my ears kissed.
She wouldn’t communicate.
I think she expected me to read her mind or just… know. When I asked her about it, she acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about. And the last time we went out, I picked Top Golf, and we hardly spoke the entire night.
“I’m hungry too,” Hattie says. “Can we hit Beignet Box?”
Hattie is a fucking breath of fresh air.
“Yeah, I love Beignet Box.” I scan around and spot the food truck in the north corner of the park, in the shade of live oaks.
Ten minutes later, we have coffee and a paper tray of powdered-sugar-dusted beignets. We head for the pond and a pair of empty Adirondacks.
“Oh, yeah,” Hattie purrs in pleasure as we sit.
“Beignet?” I ask, holding out the tray.
She raises her coffee, shaking her head. “Not yet. If I take a bite before I have some of my coffee, the coffee won’t be sweet enough.”
“Fair,” I say, setting the fried dough between us on the arm of my chair.
She holds her coffee closer to me. “Cheers.”
Grinning, I tap my cup of black Perfect Roast with one sugar to her café au lait and five sugars. “To Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Dates.”
Her smile. Damn.
She takes a sip, shuts her eyes, and hums softly, her head tipped back and that stunning smile aimed at the sky.
I want to snap a picture. Right now. But I commit the moment to memory instead.
I take my own sip.
“So good,” I mutter.
“Right?” She blinks her eyes open and looks back at me. “I should’ve bought a bag of ground coffee. This is way better than what we make at home.”
“What do you make at home?”
Hattie wrinkles her nose. “Is it weird if I say I don’t know? Maybe Community? Or Mello Joy? I don’t know.” She shakes her head, clearly a little embarrassed. “It’s usually made by the time I get up and—”
She stops.
“And what?” When I realize she’s ducking the question, I backtrack. “Hey, it’s not weird if you don’t know. Before my mom got sick the last time, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you the brands of half the shit we used.”
Hattie presses her lips together, clearly pondering this. “And then you knew because you had to start doing the shopping?”
I nod. “Me or Griffin.” I scoff. “My dad wasn’t about to do it.”
She winces. “I’ve never done the shopping. I don’t really like shopping. Except at Michael’s or AllBrands.”
“Who likes shopping?”
Hattie’s brows leap. “You don’t like to shop?”
“As far as chores go, it’s better than cleaning toilets, but I wouldn’t do it for fun.” I shrug.
She blows out a sigh. “That’s… a relief.”
“It is?”
She nods.
“Why?”
No hesitation. “Because it means not all neurotypical people like grocery shopping—even if all the ones in my family do.” Her smile this time is crooked. “Even my dad. But only if he’s grilling.”
Then her smile slips and she drops her focus. “And…”
Our Adirondack chairs are side by side, but I lean a little closer. “And what?”
Hattie rocks side-to-side. Side-to-side. “I don’t think I could.”
“Enjoy shopping?” It hits me that the rocking is a way of self-soothing and this topic puts her on edge. So I add, “A lot of people don’t like shopping.”
“But they can still do it.” Hattie shakes her head, still rocking.
“I don’t think I could do what my mom does and go to the grocery store with a list for the whole week.
Every week. It takes her like an hour. It would take me nine.
I’d give up and just have to live at the grocery store.
Maybe hollow out a little borrow in the bread aisle. ”
When I laugh, she blinks up at me, surprised. “That’s funny?”
“I mean…yeah.”
Her eyes narrow on me. “Funny funny or funny weird?”
I don’t hesitate. “Funny wonderful.”
She frowns. “That wasn’t one of the options.”
I shrug. “Too bad. It’s the truth.”
Hattie stops mid-rock, staring at me. Then she smiles huge, brilliant and beautiful.
When she plucks a beignet from the tray parked between us, powdered sugar drifts onto her dress, dusting her breasts and thighs in a sweet snowfall. When she takes a bite and then moans, I feel lightheaded.
I grab a beignet too because biting it camouflages my moan.
It’s only when I shut my own eyes and let the doughy sweetness penetrate my senses that I hum over the pastry.
It’s good. Maybe not as good as Café du Monde’s, but a respectable second, and that’s saying something.
But I forget all about beignet comparisons when I open my eyes to find Hattie watching me. Really watching me.
“Do I have powdered sugar on my face?” I ask.
She nods, unblinking.
I lick my lips and watch as her eyes blaze. It’s the second time I’ve caught her staring at my mouth. My smile goes nuclear. Because she’s attracted to me. I love that she doesn’t try to hide it.
But… maybe she couldn’t hide it if she wanted to. Maybe she doesn’t even realize that it shows.
As soon as that occurs to me, I’m not about to leave her out on that limb by herself.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, and even that’s not enough. “So beautiful.”
She goes wide-eyed. “I was just thinking that about you.”
“Lucky me.”
“Even with powdered sugar on your face,” she says, giggling.
I snort, dragging a hand down my face. “Like you don’t have any on yours.”
She stiffens. “I do?” Then she’s swatting at her face before she looks down and sees the dusting of sugar along her front. “Oh. My. God. I’m a mess!”
Color rises to her cheeks as she brushes herself off, and the last thing I want is for her to feel embarrassed.
“It’s kind of the price we pay for eating beignets.” I grab another one, making no attempt to be careful with the mound of sugar on top.
Hattie freezes, her face lighting up as I demolish it. And, yeah, I look like an accident-prone coke head.
“Um…” she tries not to grin and fails adorably. Then she gestures to her face. “You got a little—”
I feign surprise. “What? Do I have sugar on my face?”
Hattie laughs, and I love it.
I brush myself off and then watch her eyes narrow on me.
“Did you make a mess just to make me feel like less of a mess?”
“I wouldn’t say I made a mess.” I shrug. “I just didn’t fight it. What harm is there in a little powdered sugar?”
She scoffs. “You’ve met my mom and I’ve told you about my grandma.”
I pick up the last beignet and hand it to her. “Good thing we didn’t invite them.”
She snickers before taking a bite. For the second time, she doesn’t hide her pleasure, closing her eyes and whimpering.
And, fuck me, I’m jealous of a pastry.
When she opens her eyes, Hattie shakes her head. “If we had invited them, I would be eating microgreens with a shot of wheatgrass.” She nods in the direction of the Farmer’s Market.
One of the stalls actually does sell wheatgrass shots. I don’t recommend them.
“Are they big on health food?” I ask.
“No. Just big on me losing weight.”
Her words slam like a frying pan to the face. Yet she’s said them without flinching. Like it’s totally normal.
I couldn’t have heard her right.
“What?”
Her mouth quirks and she holds up her last bite of beignet. “My mom might need an AED if she saw this.” She pops the bite into her mouth, smirking defiantly.
Hattie looks intrepid, triumphant even. I just shake my head. I need to understand, but I’m uneasy even repeating her words.
“They…” Frowning, I push through. “They want you to lose weight?”
She snorts. “Like thirty pounds.”
My jaw locks.
Hattie is pure beauty. Inside and out. She vibrates with life. Her body glows. Her skin a creamy wonder, her feminine curves lush and hypnotizing.
Looking at her is like satisfying a vitamin deficiency I didn’t know I had.
Why?
Why would anyone want to change her? Why would anyone want there to be less of her?
That feels like blasphemy.
Like slapping the hand of God.
How dare they?
“You don’t need to change a thing.” I shake my head again. “In fact, please don’t.”
Beside me, Hattie goes very still. She stares at me, and other than the tiniest frown on her lovely forehead, I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
“What’s wrong?”
She presses her lips together in thought. Then she gives a decisive nod. “I’m not very good at it, but I’d like to kiss you.”
My chest cracks open like an egg, and the sunny yolk of joy pours out.
“Hell, yeah.”
Slowly, Hattie leans over the arm of her Adirondack and brings her face inches from mine. Then she stills, so close she sweetens the air I breathe. Her eyes map my face, and my smile couldn’t stretch any further by the time her gaze reaches my mouth.
Such unhurried focus—so near and so concentrated—is surprisingly erotic.
I swell in my jeans.
No one.
No one has ever looked at me like this.
It’s like being seen for the first time.
I swallow thickly.
Her eyes return to mine, and the soft, timeless smile in them is just for me. Breath crashes from me. Because I can’t help but sense that she looks all the way into me.
And likes what she sees.
I swear, locking eyes with an angel couldn’t beat this.
It’s the best kiss of my life, and we haven’t even touched.
She leans closer, and though I’m tempted to close the distance, I want the kiss—this first kiss—to be on her terms.
At least at the beginning.
When her lips land on mine, she kisses once. Twice. Chaste little greetings. Like a timid swimmer testing the water with a toe.
But then her fingers snake into my hair, and she pulls me down, sealing our mouths together.
Her grip on me is firm. Her hold tight.
I tilt my head, opening for her, and I hear her surprised gasp just before her tongue darts out to swipe mine.
She tastes like Sunday mornings.
A coffee and sugar promise. The reward for six endless days.
Sweet. Hot. And not nearly enough.
I chase after her retreating tongue with my own, a moan rising from me as I plunge into the heat of her mouth.
It’s like my senses have been behind glass my whole life. Kissing Hattie is a sledgehammer.
My fingers dive into the impossibly thick cascade of her hair. How can it be so soft when there’s so much of it?
I breathe her in—apricot shampoo and woman—like I could make her part of me. Keep her with me after we say goodbye.
And with a surge of something almost painful, I’m already dreading it. The goodbye.
Even ending this kiss seems unacceptable. Delaying the end, I wrap my arms around her. My mouth dives deeper as I draw her closer, claiming more of her.
With a delicious whimper, Hattie softens, almost melting in my arms.
I want to know all of her. See all of her. Touch all of her.
My hands are already gliding down her back, seeking to map her every curve, to learn the supple secrets of her body, to—
A sharp voice slices the air around us.
“Harriet?!”