He curls up on the sofa and glares at me as I leave without him. He’s used to being around someone almost constantly, and while he can manage a few hours alone, I hate leaving him. If he’s not with me, he’s bugging Mark or wooing Rose. Anyoneand everyone is fair game where my dog is concerned. They are his pack.
Walking faster than normal, I try to push away the crushing guilt with little success. This morning was bad, worse than I’ve seen her in a long time. All hell broke loose, triggered by a change in routine and a misunderstanding over which day of the week it is. It required more intervention than she’s needed in a long time. She thought it was Sunday, and when she asked what I would be bringing her today, the new nurse, who wasn’t clued into her care, answered honestly that I wasn’t coming. My heart crumples in my chest. That resulted in her barricading herself inside her bathroom with her back plastered against the door and her feet against the wall. They could have forced their way inside, but they would have broken her legs doing so.
Then I half engineered a situation where Eleanor was with Cheryl because I’m terrified that, with enough time to really think about what we are together, she would run. I know for a fact Cheryl will have kept her busy enough to not allow her time to form a plan. Plus, I’ve got different plans for us tomorrow. She tore open her soul for me, and it’s only fair I do the same back.
I push open the door to the bakery and blink as loud and familiar feminine laughter echoes from the kitchen. Striding in, I find Cheryl and Eleanor doubled over with a peach pie between them. They are both clutching forks, and a little piece of the pie is gone. Did someone lace the pie? William has a hard line on drugs in town, so it seems unlikely. Eleanor’s normally put together appearance is frayed at the edges. Her hair is piled on the top of her head in a messy bun, a few tendrils framing her cheeks which have a dusting of flour, and there are little orange blobs on her white T-shirt that look suspiciously like peach pie filling.
I lean my shoulder against the edge of the door and grin. “What are you cooking up, trouble?”
Cheryl straightens and glances at me over her shoulder. She notices the out of character long sleeve shirt—an unusual choice for the Texas heat—and her face loses its mirth. Eleanor, meanwhile, gasps for breath between bouts of laughter.
“We cooked you a peach pie,” Cheryl says. Not much of an explanation when it comes to my woman practically losing her mind, but that’s fine. I can wait.
“Okay,” I drawl.
“I’ll let you two finish up in here. Will needs me at home. Rose came back late, and I need to diffuse them before carnage occurs.”
“I approve,” Cheryl mouths, winking at me before disappearing out of the door and leaving us alone.
I move into the kitchen and crowd Eleanor against the side of the metal worktop. She’s still shaking with laughter and there’s a lightness to her I’ve never seen before. It looks good on her. So good, I want to make sure it’s a part of her life every day. “You want to let me in on the joke?” I ask.
“I made you pie,” she says as she waves toward the treat.
“And you cooking is hilarious?”
“No, but...” She digs her fork into the pie and pulls a big chunk out. “Taste it.”
I wrap my lips around the fork and pull the pie into my mouth. I cough as my eyes water, forcing myself to choke it down. She watches me carefully. Am I meant to lie and say it’s the best pie I’ve ever had because she made it for me? No. Lies, even white ones, aren’t going to work between us.
“That’s—”
I grab a glass and fill it with water before swigging it to get rid of the taste. My nose curls, my eyes watering as I glare at the offending pastry. It lingers. Metallic, salty, spicy, sweet—it’s weird and gross and seemingly impossible, yet…
“Awful,” she finishes. Her eyes crinkle at the sides. She’s clearly not upset about the pie.
“What did you do?” I wheeze. Cheryl guards that recipe with her life, but even basic peach pie shouldn’t taste like that.
“I don’t cook,” she reminds me. “But Cheryl offered to help make your favorite.”
“She gave you her recipe?”
“Yes, but rest assured, I fucked it up. I can’t even remember what I did so I can prevent this monstrosity from happening again.” Her lips quirk as she finally meets my eyes. “When you label two similar substances with the letter S, but one is salt and the other sugar, you should expect fuck ups. Also, tablespoons and teaspoons are easily muddled. Someone should come up with a better measurement system that doesn’t have the same letters. Ridiculous.”
“What did you add that is making my mouth burn?”
“Cinnamon. Lots and lots of cinnamon.”
I refrain from scraping the taste from my tongue with a sponge. Barely. “And the metallic taste?”
“A bakers thingy I also confused.”
“In short, you should leave the cooking to me?”
“It’s like you know me,” she says with a grin.
I return her smile and lean down to steal a kiss. It’s sweet, hot, utterly intoxicating, and something I’ll never tire of as long as I live. Eleanor is a knockout on a bad day, but disheveled like this makes me think of the aftereffects of her being in my kitchen last night. My cock jumps in my jeans, eager to be a part of the action. I pull away, and she giggles.
“Now what?”
