“I didn’t fancy running to the grocery store,” I answer, glancing sideways at her. I regret it instantly. She’s close enough that I can see every freckle on her face, and the kitchen spotlights accentuate the gold flecks in her eyes as she widens them.
“Nico Harland, did you just make a joke?”
“It’s been known to happen,” I grumble, and her face lights up.
“What kind of bread is it?”
She presses back against the counter, and nothing in the world could prepare me for her hopping up and sitting on it. I pause, my dough half suspended, staring at the thighs that are a few inches away. She has freckles on her legs, too. Fuck.
I set the dough down to rest and force my eyes up, dragging my gaze over her navy sweatshirt. Sitting up here, we’re at eye level with each other, and she’s raising a brow, waiting. Shit, she asked me a question.
“Sourdough.”
“My favorite. Did you make your own starter?”
No one has shown this much interest in me in years. Or, if they have, I haven’t paid any attention. Este peppers me with questions about how and when I learned to bake, and, though I’m not one for idle chatter, I don’t mind because she seems happy.
I was never much of a baker growing up. The kitchenwas always Shay’s domain—she and Noelle own a bakery together in Wintermore.
My brain has blocked out a lot of memories of the years before Georgie died, because thinking of her fucking hurts, but in all the happy memories I cling to, Shay is usually covered in flour or holding a whisk. I started making sourdough a few years after I moved here because it made me feel a little closer to her—and feeding my starter made me get out of bed on the days I didn’t want to, since I didn’t have the boys back then.
“What’s her name?” Este asks.
“Shay’s?”
“What? No. Your sourdough starter.”
“Why the hell would I name it?”
“Everyone names their starter. It’s good luck—like boats.”
“Huh. Well, you’re welcome to name her.”
Este swings her legs back and forth as I stretch out the dough and fold it over on itself. “Do you plan on having human babies or just the dogs and sourdough?”
I don’t know how I feel about bread being in the same category as the boys. “I’m forty-seven, single, and me. I think that ship has sailed.” It’s not something I’ve ever given much thought to, just assuming I never would. Besides, having kids when I’m so messed up would be selfish. “Why?”
“Just in case you had a name theme in mind. Since the boys have tea names, we could do that. Maybe Jasmine, or Rose, or… Camellia! Since tea comes from camellia leaves, and bread comes from your starter.”
“Camellia. That’s pretty genius, angel. I like it.”
I pull the preheated Dutch oven out and lift the dough in, tossing in the ice cubes I got out earlier and quickly closing the lid. Once it’s in the oven and my timer is set, I start wiping down the counter, feeling the heat of Este’s gaze on me.
She swings her legs out and in, and I manage not to look at them. Until her foot brushes against me, and my breath catches in my throat. She has me fucking hypnotized.
“Everything okay?” Este asks, but her tone is… loaded. I look up, trying to read her expression. There’s a glimmer in her eyes I haven’t noticed before.
Is she doing this on purpose? Does shewantme to lose my mind over her legs, imagining playing connect the fucking dots with her freckles and my tongue? Because I sure as hell am.
“Fine,” I say, but my voice is so gravelly it barely sounds like a word. I clear my throat, wipe the last of the flour from the counter, and step back. “I’m going to chop firewood.”
If I don’t burn off some of this energy, I’m going to do something I shouldn’t. And Este can’t come outside into the snow with bare legs.
I have never been more wrong.
I’ve only just finished hauling the logs I’m going to split into firewood over to the stump I use in front of myworkshop when the door opens, and the dogs come running out. Followed closely by Este.
She has, at least, put on socks. Fluffy cream knee-high things, which I think might be worse than the bare legs. And she has boots on, so her feet will be warm. But her thighs are still very bare, and I’m somehow supposed to concentrate enough to swing an axe without injuring myself. Excellent.
