Chapter 4 #4
She nods but doesn't say anything else right away, and I let the silence stretch as we finish our food. When I polish off the last bite, she taps the side of my bowl with her spoon. "More? Got plenty."
I hesitate, because I could absolutely destroy another bowl. "I, uh…"
She grins at me, scoops the last bite of her own into her mouth, and takes both bowls to the range and refills them. "There's only two of us, Noah, and I made enough stew for ten people. We eat a lot of leftovers."
"So do I. Part of being a firefighter, I guess. You get used to cold food, old food, grabbing a few bites on the go." I shrug. "The call always comes first."
The next fifteen or so minutes are spent in oddly companionable silence broken only by the clink of spoons. I finish first, but she's not far behind. I take her bowl and spoon as well as my own and wash them out in the sink, setting them on the drying mat.
“Thanks," she says. "You didn't have to do that."
I shrug while drying my hands on the hand towel hanging on the oven handle.
"Longstanding habit. One of the first serious arguments Taylor and I ever got into after we moved in together was about cooking and dishes.
Growing up, my mother did everything domestic, and that was just normal to me.
Taylor grew up without a dad, so to her, that unconscious expectation I had was a major problem. "
Morgan snorts. “I bet. God help the boy who expects Mallory to be domestic. The girl can burn water. She doesn't mind doing dishes, though." She eyes me. "Taylor cooked, and you did the dishes?"
I nod. "More or less. When I was on my 48-off, I'd cook dinner now and then, and she'd do the dishes."
Morgan's eyebrow lifts. "You can cook?"
I roll my eyes. "Yes, Morgan, I can cook. Everyone in the firehouse has to take a shift cooking, including me. I specialize in chili and pasta bakes."
"Specialize, is it?" Her smirk tells me she's teasing.
"My chili has won blue ribbons, I'll have you know."
"Let me guess, your secret ingredient is a bottle of stout?" She accompanies this by cracking open two more beers.
I tsk. "So many assumptions, Morgan. This is starting to feel a little sexist." I laugh, shaking my head. "No. My secret ingredient is not stout, although I do use that. There's actually no secret, just an old recipe handed down from my grandfather."
"You really, truly have a family heirloom recipe for chili?"
"I do. And I've tried other recipes, tried changing it, less of this and more of that, but it's always better if I follow the recipe exactly. I'm not chef enough to explain why, I just know it's true."
"The only family heirlooms I have are tiny tits and bad taste in men." Her eyes widen, and she claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh shit—forget I said that?”
Too late. My eyes go to her chest, and it’s true she's not especially large in that region.
She snorts when my eyes flick up to hers and then away guiltily. "Not much to look at, huh?"
I tip my head to one side. "All boobs are good boobs, Morgan. Speaking from a purely male point of view."
She rolls her eyes. "Uh, huh."
"For real. I think if you took a poll, the majority of men would tell you something along the lines of 'the best boobs are the ones in front of me, especially if I get to touch them.' "
She looks away, cheeks red, blinking hard.
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
"Fuck." I rub my face with both hands. "Morgan, I'm sorry. I'm an idiot with a big mouth. I'll …I should go."
She goes to the sink and braces both hands on it, head hanging. "No, don't. Please. You have nothing to apologize for."
"Then…"
"I'm not upset at you or anything you said, Noah, I swear to god it’s not you."
"Okay." I lean against the counter beside her, facing away from the sink. "Been told I'm a pretty okay listener."
She shakes her head. “Just me and my stupid insecurities. Nothing you want to hear about.”
"Can I take a wild stab in the dark?"
She nods, letting out a long, slow breath. "Sure."
"You said shitty taste in men, which kinda leads me to believe some shitty ex said some cruel shit about your body."
Her sigh is shuddery, this time. "Ding-ding-ding," she says. "Got it in one."
"Whoever he was, he was an asshole, a loser, and a dumbfuck who didn't deserve to so much as look at you fully clothed.
You're fuckin' gorgeous, Morgan. He should've been counting his lucky stars, not criticizing the gift he had in front of him.
" My blood is boiling for her, seeing how she's still affected by his words even now, what has to be years later.
I've seen Morgan Wheeler around town plenty.
Watched her kid grow from a little sprout with a flopping backpack and light-up shoes to a mature young woman.
Watched Morgan build a business and grow it from a handful of girls in hand-me-down skates to dozens of families and several students with national titles.
I haven’t seen a man in her life in all that time.
So whoever he was, he was cruel enough that she's still affected by it almost two decades later.
Words matter, people. One cutting remark can stick in someone's soul for the rest of their lives.
For some reason, my words only make Morgan's shoulders shake. When I open my mouth, she puts her palm over my face without looking at me. It's funny, and I know she meant it that way, but my laugh is a conflicted snort.
She does a few rounds of deep breathing before pushing away from the sink and shaking out her long, loose black hair. "Noah…"
I'm drawn to her. Pulled closer by an irresistible, magnetic force.
My gut is fluttering. Somehow, without intentionally moving, I find myself between her and the sink, facing her.
Our thighs brush, and her eyes find mine.
Which is when I realize I've never noted the exact shade of her eyes—a green somewhere between emerald and forest.
"Noah," she murmurs. "What are we doing?"
I shake my head. "No clue."
"I'm not sure I'm ready for—"
"Neither'm I," I say, before she can finish.
Her lashes are thick and dark against her skin as they sweep closed, staying that way for a moment before opening again and meeting mine.
Her lips are natural, no lip gloss, no lipstick.
No makeup at all, actually. But my eyes are fixed on her lips.
The plump Cupid's Bow, the indent of her philtrum, the slight sheen that's left when the pink tip of her tongue slides across her lips. They look soft and wet. Inviting.
Our mouths meet, and a soft exhale escapes her; it’s almost a whimper.
A searing bolt of electricity sizzles through me, ramping my pulse to a frenzy, making my stomach flip and flutter.
Time halts for an instant, a freeze-frame of locked lips and pounding hearts and shaking hands. A first kiss, emblazoned on my soul.
And then the grinding rattle of the garage door opening breaks the moment.
Morgan rips herself away from me, staggering back a few steps with her fingers touching her lips. "Noah—"
"Mom?"
I lean over, snag the hand towel off the oven handle, and start drying a bowl, facing the counter to hide the evidence that I’m not exactly unaffected.
I catch a grateful look from Morgan before she scrubs her face and rearranges her features into Surprised Mom mode. "In the kitchen, baby."
Wet boot-rubber squeaks on laminate; a thud-thud of boots being kicked this way and that; a coat rustling.
"I saw Cherry on the side of the road, but you weren't in it, and—“Mallory enters the kitchen from the mudroom and halts when she sees me at the counter.
"Oh. I see." A grin spreads across her face. "Well. This is cozy."