Chapter 17 Austin
SEVENTEEN
austin
The last thing I wanted to do Monday morning was get out of bed and go to work.
Not only had I been up until almost two a.m., but Veronica was still asleep beside me, warm and beautiful and smelling like cupcakes fresh from the oven. I hoped that scent would stay on me all day.
I opened my eyes a few minutes before seven, which was the time my alarm normally buzzed, and quickly switched it off so it wouldn’t wake her. Then I curled my body around hers like a question mark, pulling the covers up to our shoulders, slipping my arm around her waist.
“Mmmm.” She hugged my arms closer to her. “This is nice.”
“I know.” I tucked my knees behind hers and pressed my morning hard-on against her ass. “So nice I’m thinking about calling in sick.”
“Do it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because my dad needs me. We have to finish the cabinetry in someone’s kitchen by this afternoon, and it’s not something he can do alone.” I kissed her shoulder. “What will you do today?”
“I’ve decided I’m going to learn to cook while the kids are gone. Maybe I’ll do that today.”
I laughed. “That might be more than a one-day project.”
“I’m a fast learner. When you come home tonight, there might be a rack of lamb waiting for you. Or beef bourguignon. Or coq au vin!”
“I don’t even know what that is,” I confessed.
“Me neither. But it sounds impressive.” She tapped my arm. “I want to impress you.”
“Believe me. You have.”
“Really?” She sounded surprised. “Like how?”
“Well, for one thing, you’re awesome with the kids and they love you. I was thinking last week how everything you said at your interview turned out to be true—you memorize routines fast, you work hard, you make everything fun, and you’re teaching the kids things that I could never teach them.”
“Thank you,” she said, like she was surprised by the compliments.
“And you’re brave,” I went on. “Kicking that asshole to the curb when you knew it would mean losing everything? Confronting him the way you did yesterday? Standing up for yourself? A lot of people in your situation might have broken down and begged. You stood your ground. I was fucking blown away.”
“You were?”
“Yes.” Unable to help myself, I slid my hand down between her legs, finding her warm and wet. “Also, you are unbelievably hot. And have I mentioned your spectacular blow job skills?”
“No.” She moaned softly as I rubbed her clit.
“Unrivaled in the history of all blow jobs,” I told her. “I. Saw. God.”
She slung one leg back over my hip, opening her thighs wider. “Think your dad will mind if you’re a little late this morning?”
“I’ve given him a lot of years. He can give me twenty extra minutes.”
“This won’t even take twenty minutes,” she said breathlessly. “You know how to make me come so fast . . . I don’t know what kind of magic you’ve got in those hands, but I like it.”
I got her off with my fingers, and it was so hot watching her pale skin flush with color and hearing her desperate cries and feeling her grow hotter and wetter that I nearly came too, my aching cock pressed against her perfect round ass.
While she caught her breath, I rolled away from her just long enough to grab a condom and tear open the packet. “So you know that yoga pose you do where you’re on your hands and knees and you sort of arch your back and stick your butt out?”
She laughed, watching me roll on the condom. “Yes . . .”
“Could you please do that right now and I’ll show you what I think about doing every fucking time I see you out there in the yard?”
Grinning, she flipped onto her stomach, popped onto her hands and knees, and arched her back. Then she looked over at me, her expression coy and seductive. “Is this the one?”
“Yes. Fuck, that’s hot.” Quickly, I got to my knees behind her and eased my cock into her tight, wet pussy.
After only a few slow thrusts, I felt the climax beginning to build.
I grabbed a fistful of her hair with one hand and gripped her hip with the other.
“Jesus Christ. You know what? I might not even be late today. In fact, I might be early.”
The last thing I heard before I lost control was her deep, sexy laugh.
I couldn’t remember when I’d felt so good.
When I got home from work that evening, three things greeted me at the back door. First was the sound of Latin music playing, which I heard through the screens as I approached the house and grew louder as I entered the kitchen.
Second was the delectable aroma of barbecue sauce, which made my stomach growl with hungry anticipation the moment I stepped into the kitchen.
Third was the sight of Veronica dancing with her back to me as she chopped lettuce at the counter, her bare feet moving in a rhythmic pattern, her hips swiveling to the beat.
She wore denim shorts and that halter top she’d removed in the window, and her hair was tucked up in a messy knot on the top of her head.
The music was so loud, she hadn’t heard me come in, and I stood there for a moment, undetected, in a sort of mesmerized stupor.
My senses were overwhelmed. My mouth watered. I might have moaned.
Veronica set the knife aside and scooped up the lettuce with her hands, dumping it into two wide, shallow bowls.
Once I could tear my eyes from her, I noticed two large chicken breasts, smothered in glistening barbecue sauce, resting on a foil-lined baking sheet near the stove.
They didn’t appear burnt or undercooked.
Next to the bowls was a cutting board with a pile of halved cherry tomatoes and a clump of chopped herbs.
Veronica turned around and shrieked. “Oh! You scared me!”
“Sorry,” I said with a grin, setting my keys and wallet aside. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. It smells fantastic.”
“Good.” She turned down the music. “How was your day?”
“The usual.” I took off my work boots and left them on the rug.
“Talk to the kids at all? How are they?”
“They’re great. Dad and I FaceTimed with them.” I gave her a quick kiss and went over to the sink to wash my hands. “What’s for dinner?”
“Barbecue chicken salad. It’s not coq au vin,” she said. “But Pioneer Woman calls it one of her go-to summer recipes.”
“Pioneer Woman?” As I dried my hands, I checked out what was on the stove. On one gas burner was a large skillet full of black beans and corn. A small saucepan, empty now, looked like it might have contained the barbecue sauce.
“Yes. I went to the library and asked Noreen, the librarian, if she had any recommendations for cookbooks, but she pointed me in the direction of some YouTube tutorials and websites instead. She said Pioneer Woman is her favorite, so I started there.” She shrugged, palms up.
“I think I did okay! I found a meat thermometer in one of your drawers, and that helped me know when the chicken was done. I’d never used one of those before. ”
I laughed. “It’s good to have tools. Do I have time for a quick shower?”
“Yes,” she said. “I still have to slice the chicken off the bone and finish putting the salads together.”
“Perfect.”
“I have to confess, I didn’t make the sauce from scratch—it’s just from a jar,” she said, her expression guilty.
“Same with the apricot preserves I added to it. But,” she went on, brightening up, “Noreen told me that the Cherry Tree Harbor farmers’ market is on Tuesdays, so tomorrow I’m going to go check it out, and maybe get some local ingredients to make something fully from scratch.
She said everything tastes better when it’s direct from farm to table. ”
“I’m sure whatever you made tonight will taste as good as it smells. I appreciate you making dinner—you didn’t have to.”
Pink roses bloomed in her cheeks. “I wanted to.”
I dropped another kiss near her temple. “I’ll be right down.”
Taking the steps two at a time, I started stripping my clothes off before I even reached my room.
“It’s official,” I told her, setting my fork down. “This is the best meal you’ve made yet. Ten out of ten. Highly recommend.”
“Thank you,” she said, bowing her head. “I appreciate that.”
“I’ll do the dishes.”
“I don’t mind doing them. With the kids gone, I don’t have much else to do, and you’re still paying me.” She took a sip of her wine. “Don’t you want to work tonight?”
The only thing I wanted to do tonight was get inside her again. It was my new favorite place. “I don’t really have anything I’m working on right now. I have to find the wood for Xander’s bar. That’s my next project.”
“Oh right—the bet.”
“He texted me like fifty times today asking when it’s going to be ready.” I picked up my beer and took a long swallow. “Pain in the ass.”
“I don’t blame him for wanting you to make it.” She brushed the tabletop with her fingertips. “Your work is so beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
“That was cool about Quentin and Pierre wanting to sell your tables at their gallery,” she said. “Think you’ll take them up on the offer?”
“I doubt it.”
“Why not?”
“If orders started coming in, I’d have to devote serious time to keeping up with them, and I just don’t have it.”
She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin in one hand. “In all these years, you’ve never thought of leaving Two Buckleys? Of doing your own thing?”
“Actually, I have.”
“Tell me.”
“When I was twenty-five, and Mabel was sixteen and pretty self-sufficient, I wanted to move out to California. A friend of mine from high school had opened up a surf shop in Santa Cruz and had this idea about making custom paddle boards. He invited me to go into business with him, so I went out for a visit. That’s where I met Sansa. ”
“Ah. I feel like I know how this ends.”
“Exactly.” I finished off my beer and set the empty bottle down.
“Back at home, I spent a few weeks working up the nerve to tell my dad that I wanted to quit Two Buckleys and move across the country, but before I could do it—literally the very day I’d planned to have the talk with him—I got the phone call that changed everything. ”
“Wow, the timing. Were you devastated?”