[True North 01.0] Bittersweet

by Sarina Bowen

  I paused after we’d walked a ways up the row. “What am I looking at?” In this part of the orchard every tree had a metal tag hanging from a low branch. Like an overgrown dog tag, with three digits. “What is tree number one-twelve?”

  “One-twelve is an Ashmead’s Kernel. That’s a tasty apple. Want to try one?”

  “I want to try the weirdest cider apple you’ve got.”

  He grinned. “Are you sure about that? Bittersweets can be pretty intense.”

  “Hit me.” How weird could an apple be?

  “You’ve been warned.” He took my hand again and led me between the trees into the next row. After a couple minutes’ walk, we arrived in front of a tree bearing the number forty-four. It was loaded down with pale yellow apples. “This variety is called White Norman. My dad planted them when he was my age, because he needed some tannic apples to fill out his blends. A good cider has between five and twenty percent bittersweet juice from something like this.” He plucked one off the tree and handed it to me.

  The twinkle in his eye should have been a warning. But I’d never had a cautious palate, so I took a big old bite and chewed. The texture was…

  Fuck the texture. My mouth was suddenly full of the most bitter, vile flavor I’d ever known. Oh my God. I chewed faster, hoping to choke it down as fast as possible. But that only made it worse.

  Griffin was chuckling now. “Just spit it out, baby. Everybody does.”

  I turned away from him and hawked the entire mouthful into the grass. Then I spit again just for good measure. The only other sound was Griff’s laughter.

  Turning around, I wiped my mouth in the crook of an elbow and struggled to regain my dignity while Griff’s great body shook with hysteria. “Enough,” I grumbled. “You had your fun.” Even now I swallowed hard, still trying to scrape that stubborn flavor off my tongue. It wasn’t working. “Quick. Give me a better apple.”

  But Griff solved the problem a different way. He stepped close and pulled me into his arms. Then, chuckling, he gave me his mouth. And all at once I was overwhelmed by a different set of sensations. The familiar brush of his beard against my face, and his firm, full lips pressing against mine. I relaxed instinctively, welcoming him in. His bossy tongue invaded my mouth, and the bitter apple was long forgotten. There was only the pull of his mouth and the soul-deep grunt that rose from his chest when I responded to his kiss.

  My hands explored the unfamiliar crinkle of a dress shirt over his broad ribcage. I had to stand on tiptoe to get my arms around him properly. It had been way too long since we’d touched, and I wanted to scale him like a tree and reacquaint myself with the strength of his limbs.

  With a groan, Griff cupped my ass and squeezed. He lifted me against his body, bringing my core into contact with the evidence of his enthusiasm for my visit to Vermont. I ground against him to get closer, and he moaned into my mouth.

  Hell. We were going to end up naked beneath one of these trees in under a minute if things escalated any further.

  Fine with me.

  I wound my fingers into his hair and kissed him as hard as I could.

  His hand wandered under the hem of my skirt and I whimpered like an eager puppy.

  “Hey, Griff!” It was Zach’s voice.

  He tried to pull away to save my dignity. But I wasn’t having it. One more kiss…

  “Griff! I think we— Shit. Sorry. Never mind.” Zachariah retreated in a hurry.

  But the damage was done. Griff and I quit mauling each other. I was left panting, my face tucked against his shirt, his hand clutched possessively around the back of my neck. The hum of expectation still sizzled between us, but it would have to wait.

  I made an effort at conversation. “What shall we do tomorrow?”

  “More of that,” he rumbled.

  I gave him a little pinch. “Besides that. It’s Saturday. You’ll be slammed, right?”

  He gave a little growl and kissed my forehead. “Hopefully in more ways than one.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Who else?”

  I slapped his ass. “You know what I mean.”

  “Sure.” He chuckled. “This place is going to be overrun with customers. So either we work or we get the hell out of here.”

  “You can’t just leave, right?”

  “Not easily,” he admitted, easing back to get a look at my face. “But I don’t get many hours with you. So maybe it’s time to call in some favors.”

  “We can sell apples and then go out somewhere together.”

  He caught my chin in his hand and smiled. “Deal. You angling to drive the horses?”

  “Hell no. But I could pour cider for tourists. That sounds like fun. Who doesn’t like pouring free drinks?”

  He grabbed my hand. “Come see my new tanks.”

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “It’s my best line,” he promised. “Come on. Walk with me.”

  We strolled down along the hillside together, making a detour to look at the Green Mountain range in the distance.

  When we finally arrived at the cider house, Griff’s new toys did not disappoint. Along one wall of his cider house stood three gleaming metal fermentation tanks. “Wow! You must have tripled your capacity here.”

  “Almost. Aren’t they shiny? I’ll never own a sports car; I figure this is as close as I’m going to get.”

  The metal felt warm under my hand. “This one is full, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you turn in your contest entry?”

  “Of course.”

  I turned to him. “Did you enter the sexy cider?”

  “Of course I did.” He grinned. “I got some other people to taste it first. And nobody mentioned sex, but everyone liked it. Hang on…” He crossed to a shelf crammed with notebooks and took down the second-to-last one. He flipped its pages until he found what he was looking for. “Here’s what people said: Complicated. Earthy and edgy. Volatile. Unpredictable. Notes of mushroom and salt…” His eyes lifted to mine. “Sweaty and euphoric.”

  I giggled. “Wow.”

  “Yeah. They came close but they couldn’t quite place it.” He winked.

  “Where are you going to display the trophy?” I looked around.

  He shrugged. “I’m doing this for bragging rights.” The dinner bell rang, and Griff tipped his head toward the sound. “You ready to face the masses?”

  “Always.”

  Griff crooked his elbow toward me. “Come on, then. You’re my dinner date.”

  I’d wondered if Griff’s family would find my appearance surprising. But as we walked into the kitchen door, May simply said, “Audrey, come ’ere. We’re having a debate about the cranberry sauce. Orange zest, or no?”

  “I’m a purist,” I admitted. “I like it plain. A little sugar and nothing else. Are these your own cranberries?” I took the handle of the spoon and gave the bright red sauce a stir. “Beautiful.”

  “Nothing else is that color, right?” Dylan agreed. “It’s the reddest of reds.”

  “Hi honey,” Griff’s mother said, as if I popped in every night. “We’re having turkey with our own potatoes. It’s simple but…”

  “Perfect,” I said quickly. Sometimes being a chef meant that others justified their food choices to you. Chefs ate Pringles sometimes, too. Not every meal can be a culinary adventure.

  The food turned out wonderfully, of course. Ruthie Shipley was a very competent cook. She stuck close to the classic flavors, but her turkey was moist and juicy, the potatoes creamy, the wilted spinach dancing in garlic and olive oil. I ate plenty. And, throughout the meal, Griff held my hand under the table whenever he could.

  It was dreamy, really. And yet the whole experience made me feel a little heartsick. The World of Griffin Shipley was a place I could visit from time to time, though I was always faced with leaving again. I looked around the table at all the faces shining in the candlelight. The twins. Kyle. Jude, looking even broader and healthi
er than the last time I’d seen him. Zachariah, as golden and smiling as always. Griff’s grandpa, gnawing on a giant turkey drumstick which he held in two greasy hands. Ruthie, laughing at her daughter May’s impersonation of a farmers’ market customer.

  This is why people cooked food—to create the perfect meal for a table like this—for people gathering together. In the kitchens where I worked, you couldn’t see the results of the labor. It was hidden from view.

  Culinary school had taught me to create the food for the food’s sake. But that was never supposed to be the point.

  “You okay, princess?” Griff gave my knee a squeeze under the table.

  “Never better,” I replied. And it was the truth.

  “Do you mind if we dine and dash?” May said, standing up at the end of the meal. “Jude’s meeting starts in forty-five minutes.”

  Ruth waved her daughter on. “Drive safely.”

  Jude, quiet as usual, cleared his plate, too. The two of them disappeared.

  The rest of us had pie. It was my first taste of Ruth’s legendary apple and cranberry pie, and I loved it. “Wow. The whole-wheat crust is amazing.”

  “I do love a whole-wheat crust,” the cook said shyly.

  “It’s…nutty,” I agreed. “This is terrific. I’d ask you for the recipe but I’ve seen you cook.”

  Griff’s mother laughed. “I haven’t measured ingredients since 1980.”

  Eventually, Kyle and Zach headed out, too. Their destination—The Mountain Goat. We were all in the kitchen scraping plates and loading the two identical dishwashers when Kyle asked, “You two coming with us for beers?”

  “You go ahead,” Griff said quickly. “I have a present for Audrey.”

  “Is that what we’re calling it these days?” Kyle teased.

  Griff gave him a shove. “Get lost already.”

  After they departed, he topped off our wine glasses and picked them up. “Come with me, princess.” He headed toward the back door.

  “Night, Audrey!” Dylan called cheerfully.

  “Uh, night.” I felt heat crawl up my neck. I followed Griffin out the back door.

  We were alone again. Pebbles crunched under our feet, and a half moon had just broken over the horizon, lighting the way. I followed Griffin in silence, enjoying the stillness of the night. We stopped beside his truck, where I pulled my duffel bag off the back seat. Griff traded me a glass of wine for my bag and carried it for me.

  Even gruff farmers can be gentlemen.

  When we got to the bunkhouse, he held open the door, then kicked off his shoes on the mat.

  I copied him and followed him into his room, my pulse elevated by nervous anticipation. Was I going to sleep with Griffin, even if it made me wistful later?

  Of course I was.

  Griff set my bag on the floor. He took a sip of his wine, then sat down on the corner of his bed. “So, I got you a little something. It’s just a silly thing, but I wanted you to have it.” He nodded toward the window, where I saw a wrapped gift on his desk.

  He’d called it a little thing. But this gift was bigger than a breadbox. I crossed the room and put a hand on the polka-dot wrapping paper. There was even a matching bow. “Nice wrapping job,” I teased, but my voice came out a little shaky. Griff got me a present? What the hell?

  “Well, my sisters helped me wrap it.” His dark eyes held mine, and their expression was so serious that I didn’t know what to say or do. It was as if I were being tested somehow, but I wasn’t sure what for. “Open it already.”

  I set down my glass and tugged off the ribbon, which fell in a satiny pile onto the old wooden desk. I tore the folded ends of the wrapping paper and removed it, revealing a plain cardboard box. With a fizz of nervous anticipation in my chest, I opened the top and looked down into the box. And what I saw there made my breath catch.

  An Easy-Bake Oven—the old kind, like I’d had as a child. The little metal cake pan was tucked into the side of the box, too. I slid it out and balanced it on my hands. “Oh my God! Where did you find this?”

  “Ebay.” Griff gave me a shy grin. “It’s the model they were selling in 2002. I hope it looks familiar.”

  “It’s…” I lifted it out of the box and hugged it to my chest. “My God, it’s perfect. This is so cool.” I set it down on the desk and opened the little oven door. And it was like looking into my whole life. I remember learning how to unmold a cake so that it was centered on the plate. And how to decorate one with a paper cone and icing. Weirdly, I’d done those things in my bedroom to escape the wrath of the kitchen staff and the prying eyes of my babysitter.

  Maybe it’s pathetic, but I remembered those hours as the best of my childhood. For once in my life I’d been doing something that interested me and only me. Nobody had graded me. Nobody had cared if I succeeded. It was just fun.

  I looked into the box one more time and found the cake lifting tool—like a spatula, sort of, but it fit around the edges of the pan. The way it felt in my hand was as familiar as breathing. “Griff,” I said, my throat constricting. “If I’ve ever said that you’re no fun, I was wrong.”

  And now my damn eyes were wet.

  “Aw.” He was there in an instant, hugging me.

  With the spatula still in my hand, I wrapped my arms around him. He felt so good. He was so good. Damn it. I loved this man.

  How ridiculously inconvenient. My traitorous heart only wanted things it couldn’t have. It had a perfect record.

  Griffin kissed me on the head. “I’m glad you like it. I just wanted you to know something.”

  “What?” I gasped.

  “That I get it. Becoming a chef—a real one—it’s important to you. I wouldn’t ever try to talk you out of it, or ask you to give it up. But I wish things were easier. Because I’d really like to have you here with me.”

  “You would?” I pulled out of his grasp, because I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.

  He looked down at me as if maybe I was a little slow. “Yeah, baby. I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re a good fit. I miss you. All the time.”

  “You…” I pointed the cake-lifter at the center of his chest, as if asking him to hold still. My brain would not wrap itself around this conversation. “You can’t just say stuff like that,” I sputtered. “It’s confusing.”

  Griffin just grinned. “You want me to stop talking?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  A split second later, he gripped my hips and lifted me. Startled, I dropped my cake-lifter onto the rug, where it made a soft thud. Griffin turned, depositing me in the middle of his big bed. Then he covered me with his body and began to kiss my neck.

  I shivered immediately. Griff’s mouth was alternately soft and demanding as he tongued and then sucked at my tender skin. When he’d said we were a good fit, he wasn’t wrong. Whenever this man touched me, I always melted like a stick of butter in a warm saucepan—first softening slowly, and then puddling all at once under his touch. As he kissed his way into the neckline of my shirt, I relaxed beneath him. And when he nosed into the cup of my bra, I gave a whimper.

  He chuckled. “Is it talking too much if I tell you I need this gone?” He tugged on my bra.

  With shaky hands I fumbled with my bra strap. When it gave way, I sighed with relief.

  Griffin lifted my top over my head, extracting me from it. “Fuck, yeah.” He tossed my bra away, too. Dropping his head, he nosed across my bust, his beard tickling me. The roughened pad of one thumb caressed a nipple, and I moaned loudly.

  With a happy grunt, he took one nipple into his mouth and sucked. It was so good that I arched my back for more.

  This man would be the death of me. There was nothing he had that I didn’t want more of.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Griffin

  I’d never made love to anyone. Great sex was something I’d experienced many times. But as I methodically kissed away every one of Audrey’s defenses, it occurred to me tha
t this was the first time I’d ever tried to show someone how I really felt about her.

  Words were not my strong suit. My whole life I’d been told I was too blunt. Too gruff. But I’d done well enough at telling Audrey how I felt.

  Then she told me to shut up.

  But that was okay, because I knew I’d gotten through. I saw it in her eyes and in the joy on her face when she’d opened that box. And now I had one more way to show her the way things really were between us.

  I was right where I wanted to be—on top of my girl. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her face flushed. Nobody else put that color on her cheeks. It was all my doing. Maybe words weren’t my best tool, but I had others at my disposal.

  Kissing my way down her body, she squirmed as I reached the top edge of her skirt’s waistband. Teasing her now, I left a trail of kisses across her smooth tummy. I loved the sugar-salt taste of her skin.

  But Audrey was impatient with me now. She sat up and reached for the buttons of my shirt, then let out a frustrated huff when she couldn’t really get to them.

  “What do you need, princess?” I whispered. I rose to my hands and knees in front of her and began to remove my shirt. “Is this it?”

  By the time I tossed my shirt aside, Audrey’s sweet fingers had already begun to slide across my body. They measured me. They took stock. She must have liked what she found because she rose up tall on her knees and kissed me, her naughty fingers plunging down to pop the button on my trousers.

  At the first brush of her fingers at my waist, I throbbed for her. And when she lowered my zipper, I actually had to grit my teeth against a sudden surge of anticipation.

  The rest of our clothes came off at record speed. Then I was holding Audrey against me, skin to skin. She fit perfectly in my arms, and I had to take a deep breath and remind myself to go slow. So I eased her off my body for a moment and pulled down the covers on the bed.

  Audrey cooperated, slipping underneath the quilt and sheet. I turned her on her side, facing away from me, and curled up around her body. Whenever I lay here alone in this bed, wishing for her, my fantasy looked just like this. Tonight it was real. I snaked an arm around her waist and held her close. My impatient dick was like a fencepost against her back, but it was going to have to wait a minute.