Chapter 20 What Feeds Her Soul
WHAT FEEDS HER SOUL
Holden
Natalie is beautiful; that doesn’t come as a surprise. From the moment I laid eyes on her, I was taken aback by both her beauty and her light. The more I get to know her, the more I see how it goes beyond the surface, which just adds to how incredible she is.
But this?
The way she’s looking at me with stars in her eyes, her hair softly falling in waves around her full cheeks, her green cardigan that slightly covers some of her curves accentuated by whatever contraption is on her body right now, has my throat going dry.
“Is this not appropriate?” she asks shyly, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious of her clothes, and I hate myself for it.
I shake my head. “No, you don’t. You—” I clear my throat “—fuck. Sorry. Ah. Mm. You look appropriate.”
Holden, what the fuck?
“I’m sorry. I’m going to try this again.”
I close the door in her face like I’m a middle schooler picking up a dance date and her father is watching from behind her.
I knock, and when she opens it, a giggle escaping her full lips, I lose words again.
She’s breathtaking.
“Hello, Natalie. You look incredible this morning. Per usual.”
“Why thank you, Mr. Beast. You don’t look so bad yourself.” Her cheeks turn that shade of red that’s been haunting my dreams. I’ll lose the battle if I dwell on it, breaking my vow to stay away.
“Ready, Beauty?”
She steps through the door, the subtle click filling the space as she shuts it behind her.
We might walk to my car in silence, but the way her scent carries sparks something in my body.
Like my skin can't help but respond to her nearness.
Like my heart knows we need to be close.
Letting me know how much I like her. A lot more than I thought.
My body reacts to the way her hair bounces slightly with every step she takes, my hands sweating, itching to touch her, my brain committing to memory her scent, her voice, the way she looks with that tight skirt hugging her ass. Her perfect ass.
I clear my throat, catch up to her to open the door, and in no time, we’re on our way.
“Where are we going?”
“Um, it depends. How much time do you have?”
She gasps dramatically. “Are you kidnapping me and taking me to a faraway land, keeping me prisoner in a room full of books?”
I chuckle. “No, you already have a room full of books.” She’s so chirpy this morning. I love it. “I’m trying to decide if I can take you into Jacksonville, or if we have to stay in Baker.”
She considers it as we drive down her road, and eventually, she says, “We can go to Jax. My oldest is on a field trip there, and I like to stay close while they’re not with me. Sorry, I jus—”
“You don’t have to apologize for wanting to stay close to them. In case of an emergency, right? I get it. You never have to apologize for being a mom to me.”
“Thanks. I’m going to text my friends and let them know to stay tuned in case Vero needs anything.”
“If something were to happen, I would take you wherever you need to go. I promise.”
I give her time to do what she needs while I take us to my favorite brunch restaurant.
Ellie’s Kitchen has Southern-style breakfast all day a few days a week, and I love coming here for it.
My mom used to make Southern style breakfast on Sundays.
She’d go to the supermarket and get ingredients for sausage gravy, biscuits, and eggs, usually splurging a few extra dollars to buy fresh flowers.
She’d treat us to the best meal, and after, we were all so full, we could barely keep it together.
We would lie on the couch and watch TV for hours.
It was such a special thing, I never thought twice about it being because we couldn’t do much financially, so special Sundays were born. They were truly special to me, and I know they were to Liz too. She was a baby when she joined the tradition, but ‘biskeys and gavies’ became her favorite thing.
“We’re all set. Now, where are you taking me?”
“Do you have any allergies?” Damn it, I should’ve asked that.
I’m rusty. So rusty. Can one even be rusty if dating was never one’s thing?
I don’t think I’ve ever picked up a woman at her doorstep to take her anywhere, let alone breakfast. I’m glad that if there’s someone to experience firsts with, it’s her.
She shakes her head. “Nope.”
“Then can it be a surprise?”
“Sure can.” She sinks into the seat as much as she can while still keeping the seatbelt snug over her chest. “So what’s going on with Jerry?”
“Straight to the point. I thought we were going to wait for the cushion of breakfast.”
“Fair. I can wait.”
She’s so respectful of my boundaries and my time.
She doesn’t push past what I’m willing to share; that has to be the most attractive thing about her.
Maybe this is what it’s like to bond with someone who knows what an excruciating, life-altering loss is like.
They understand everyone moves at a different pace, and offering grace when needed can go a long way.
We pull up to the restaurant, and her face lights up like a Christmas tree.
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to try this place out,” Natalie says, stepping out of the car. “Ellie, you met her yesterday. This is her husband’s restaurant.”
“No shit? Small world, huh?” I guide her in, carefully placing my hand on her lower back—holding my breath at the feeling of her heat under my hand.
We’re seated in no time, in a booth far away from the entrance. I try to slide in to the far seat so I can keep my eyes on the door, but she tenses.
“You okay?” I whisper in her ear.
“Ye-um, yes.”
“Hey.” I usher her to turn to me, her glossy eyes crashing to mine. “We can leave. This is supposed to be a good time. If you’re—”
“No, I-I just—” She searches my eyes, and I hope she finds whatever it is she needs right now. Comfort, strength, patience, something. “Can I sit on that side?” She points at the bench facing the door.
“No problem at all.” We switch places, my back to the door now, and after the server brings us menus and water, she silently drinks all of hers down, removes her sweater, and tucks her hair that won’t stay behind her ears.
“I’m sorry. I-I don’t like sitting with my back to the door.”
“No need to apologize. It was a reflex—Mom always said men are supposed to face the door.”
She nods. “As the protector I know, I grew up in the South too, so I get it, but I just…”
“Natalie, you don’t have to explain. You’re allowed to ask for things you want just because. That’s fine with me.”
The corner of her mouth lifts, a little crooked, and fills her cheeks slightly. Not the way she looks when she smiles wide and proud, but a smile, nonetheless.
We look at the menu in peace, or at least she does. I’m too busy looking at her to shift my gaze to anything else. It doesn’t matter either way, because I know what I want.
Both in life and from this place.
I want her.
Even if I don’t deserve her. I’m about to have to fight my brain, my body, and my heart tooth and nail until we either heal so we can be whole for her, or until I can forget how much I want her.
I’ve never felt like this with anyone before.
I’ve never felt a connection so deep, it feels like its roots are growing from the bottom of my soul all the way to my fingertips. How does one even—
“Are you ready to order?” the server interrupts my thoughts. Quickly, we both place our orders, and when she leaves, taking the menus with her, the shield I was hiding under is gone. I’m left to face Natalie and hope to hell she doesn’t see my inner turmoil.
“Nick’s death was sudden,” she says after she takes a sip of her water.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about all the details, but when he got hurt, my phone was away from me, and nobody could reach me.
I was at the store, though, and someone came to tell me he was being transported to the hospital. ”
She pauses. I want her to know she doesn’t have to share this if it’s painful, but she seems to want to share, so I let her. I saw Liam do that for Oliver when he lost his wife, the same way he did for me when I lost family—he listened in the way it’s needed the most: actively and patiently.
“When they came in, the door didn’t have a bell, and my back was to it.
I was stocking the shelves, and all they shouted was ‘Nick’s in the hospital’, and I dropped a book.
” She exhales, eyes fixed on her water cup.
“Somehow, it all jumbled together—the back to the door, the unexpected entrance, the sound of the book falling, and my husband’s death. ”
“So now, you face the door and put chimes at entrances.”
She hums in agreement. “A little irrational, I know, but—”
“Nothing irrational about not wanting to replicate the things that happened when you found out your husband was hurt.”
Two not-so-silent tears fall down her face as she tries to blink them away.
Just like the blush on her face speaks volumes, her tears do the same.
I can hear how they trail guilt, sadness, and sorrow.
I can understand telling me thank you for understanding and for putting into words the struggles she’s faced, the hurt.
Those two tears share so much love, passion, and a life that was lost. I imagine two lives—his and the one they had together.
I’ve never wanted to be closer to someone before.
The urge to reach over and wipe her tears, carrying them with me on my fingertips, is so strong, it physically pains me not to give in.
I do the next best thing and touch my foot with hers under the table.
She looks surprised for a brief second, but then her face softens, smiling back.
“My daughter says I’ll get dehydrated from crying so much, fair warning. It comes as an entire package with being my friend.”
“What does?”
“My kids, my tears, and me.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. I promise.”