“Why don’t I show you?”
It’s stupid, and I know it. I shouldn’t be doing anything to invite more contact between the two of us, but I do anyway. And Lola, of course, jumps on the offer. She stands gingerly, then, to my surprise, shrugs off her jacket and lays it over the back of her chair.
Now, she’s wearing only the soft purple sweatpants and a simple white tank top. Maybe the teachers were right about the power of the shoulder, because my entire body is suddenly hot.
She uses the kitchen counter to help her walk over to me, and I let the ball of dough fall out of the bowl, focusing on the instruction rather than the scent of her, the heat of her, so close to me.
I could reach out and put my hands on her waist. I could turn her around, press my mouth over hers. I could lift her up and set her on the counter, step between her legs?—
“This one has already been stretched and folded, and it’s been in the fridge,” I say, sprinkling flour over the board, wrestling with my thoughts. One half of my brain is still focused on this, on the bread making.
The other half is focused on the chipped nail polish on her hands, the rolled band of her sweatpants at her waist, and the thin, tanned strip of skin between the two.
“So now it just needs shaping.”
“To the salon!” she says, glancing at me, and I raise an eyebrow at her. “You don’t get internet out here, do you?”
“No,” I say, and then, because the irresponsible half of my brain has taken over, I reach for her hands and set them on the dough, working them the way I’ve learned to. “You want to kind of cup it like this, shape it. We want it to be a perfect ball.”
She goes quiet, focusing on the task at hand, and I pull back from her. Hopefully she doesn’t notice how hard I’m breathing, my body’s reaction to her.
I’ve never been the kind of guy who pants over women. Sure, I’d had crushes — I had a crush on Hannah for a long time before I did anything about it — but it’s never felt like this before. If Elliot were here, he might describe it as anitch you can’t scratchorthe worst kind of thirst.
Actually, if Elliot were here, he’d say he wanted totap that.
“How’s that?” Lola asks, turning to me, and when she tries to brush her hair out of her face with the back of her hand, she leaves a trail of flour in its wake.
“Great,” I say, voice rough. “Looks good. Let’s get it in the oven.”
When I notice the way she glows at my praise, I decide enough is enough and slam back down my defenses, focusing solely on the task at hand.
Move the dough, put it in the warmed Dutch oven. Set the timer. Wash my hands.
If Lola notices my walls, she doesn’t let them deter her. Instead, she takes her spot at the breakfast bar again, and when I’m drying my hands, she says, “So, what do we do now?”
CHAPTER 11
LOLA
Rowan’s life, apparently, mostly consists of chores.
Or maybe he’s trying to wear me out, get me to admit defeat and go back to the living room, rather than following him around, insisting on doing what I can to help.
After I watch him make the bread, I follow him outside to check on the rain barrels. We check the levels and make sure they’re not overwhelmed after such heavy rain. Then we check the chemical levels in the various filters, all while getting drizzled on.
By the end of the second day, it finally stops raining, but Rowan says the road on the way down the mountain is definitely not safe, and I don’t argue with him. Maisie isn’t expecting me back until the end of the week, and it’s not like I have a signal up here, anyway.
As the time passes, we talk. Rowan stays quiet through all my questioning, not even tripping up when I ask him a question about my phone, wanting to see how well-versed in technology he is.
That night, we sit in the warmth of the kitchen, and he cooks us grilled cheese using the sourdough we made together. (Yes, I’m considering it a joint project, even though I mostly watched and only did some shaping at the end.) And it’s the best sandwich I’ve ever had.
There’s a little dining table in a nook by the front door, and we sit together at it, the leaves rustling, shaking free the last, clinging droplets of rain.
When I accidentally let out a little moan of pleasure, Rowan gives me a look that makes my insides feel molten. But that night, I lay on the couch, waiting for him to make an appearance, sure that he will, after a look like that. But he doesn’t.
Later, when he goes to let Cheese out, I take a picture of the empty plate, a video showing the view out the window. It’s not to post — it’s just for me. So I can remember. Rowan made it clear he doesn’t want me to post, but why would he mind me keeping pictures for myself?
On the third day, we attempt to walk through some of the trails near his place, but they’re a little too muddy for him, and definitely too muddy for me, though my ankle is getting better. Cheese doesn’t care about the mud and happily splashes in some puddles. I insist on helping Rowan with Cheese’s bath, and we both get drenched.
