by Liora Blake
No preamble, just a shrug.
“I’m the youngest of four boys and I was a surprise. I showed up six years after the others, so when I was little, I ended up stuck with Grandma while they were out doing cool stuff in the summer. She was always putting things up and I was her helper. I think I could remember the process in my sleep if I had to. Sterilize, fill, wipe the rim, place the lid, set the band, and in they go. I was usually rewarded with an Otter Pop while the jars processed, but I’m not sure if you have any of those in your freezer.”
Stepping back, he makes room for me to start to fill the jars. Silence as I do. Well, if he isn’t going to address the obvious, I am.
“What are you doing here, Cooper?”
He wipes the rim on the first jar and keeps his eyes fixed on the counter, waiting for me to finish the next one.
“I needed more apple butter. Took a drive and here I am.” Taking a quick glance my way, he tilts his head. “Your website sucks, by the way. You’re making it really hard for people to find you.”
“Oh my God. Are you joking right now?” I heft the pot down to the counter so I can scrape the last of the chutney to one side, just enough to dollop into a small bowl for sampling once it cools.
“You show up here out of the blue and act like it’s totally normal to jump in as my little chutney helper, despite the fact that we’re basically strangers to each other. You bitch about my hospitable nature when I don’t have my front door locked properly. And you’re insulting my website. No apple butter for you.”
My breathless, slightly annoyed delivery elicits a chuckle from him but nothing else. Sigh. This guy and a simple explanation. Like pulling teeth, I tell you.
“Now try again. What are you doing here? My apple butter isn’t that good. So taking a five-hour drive to get some more sounds a little nutty.”
I place the lids on as Cooper threads a band over each.
“What hurts is I didn’t even get to try the apple butter. It got … contaminated.”
His lip turns up in a little snarl as my stomach bottoms out. I’m extraordinarily cautious with my canning, so any contamination references are not good.
“What? Was something wrong with it? Was the lid sealed? What did it look like when you opened it? Shit. I’m sorry you got a funky one.”
“Calm down. It was fine. Or, ‘soooo gooood,’ as I was told.”
He drawls out the words and adds a loll of his head for effect. It becomes obvious that Cooper is imitating a woman with his mocking tone, and that the woman he’s mocking was probably somewhere private enough to sample the apple butter I sent home with him. The twist of my belly at that image is entirely unjustified, so I bite the inside of my cheek to stave it off.
“Ah. A woman got to it first. This gal have a name?”
His entire body tightens up and every bit of agitation there shouts that I’ve poked into a space of his world that he’d prefer I didn’t. I lower the jars into the water-bath canner again, setting the timer on the stove for thirty minutes. Cooper sets the lid on the pot with a touch more effort than necessary and it makes a sharp clanging noise when he does.
“Of course she has a name. The point is that I need more apple butter because she double-dipped in the jar you gave me before I even had a taste. And I needed to get out of town because my team trainer likes screwing with me when I don’t need it. I’m in a bad mood because I haven’t slept well in three days and my head feels like it’s twice its usual size. How the fuck has your day been?”
When I turn to face him, I consider telling him to fuck right off because my day—scratch that, my year—hasn’t been all cavorting puppies and double rainbows, either.
But the look on his face is pure tension and heat, like he’s considering the idea that if we just dropped to the floor and went at it, that might make things better for a while. My belly does a swift gallop at the sight and I’m sure my responding expression is clear. That I wholeheartedly agree. All we need to do is flip a coin to see who’s going to be on top.
When Cooper’s jaw tics a fraction, it reinforces both eagerness and hesitation on my part. It’s obvious that Cooper Lowry could be the best kind of distraction there is. All that moody strength bottled up with a touch of angsty oomph, and you likely have a bottle rocket just begging for a lit match. Just so happens I have matches in a kitchen drawer that’s only two steps away. Shove past the duct tape, random twist ties, and scraps of yarn littering that same drawer and voilà, we could waste an afternoon the right way.
I don’t need to know more about his problems, or care what the apple butter double-dipper woman’s name is. He doesn’t need to know I’m facing financial ruin and may end up sleeping in my truck a few months from now. The reality here is that nothing beyond this room is relevant between us. We can stand here and shoot the shit, make chutney, and pretend that our real lives are on pause.
Unless we decide to do something else. Like have really sweaty, awesome, mind-blowing sex.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“My day’s been just about as sucky as yours. Right up until a grumpy lout knocked on my door. Then things started to look up.”
Cooper raises his brows. Even better, I get a tiny twist of his lips into what some might call a smirk. That’s good enough for me. Because all that matters right now is we’re two bad-mood bears with no place else to be.
5
(Cooper)
“My day’s been just about as sucky as yours. Right up until a grumpy lout knocked on my door. Then things started to look up.”
A wave of endorphins roar through my nervous system when a flicker of invitation lights in Whitney’s eyes, and all of my vital organs begin working double-time just to keep up with the rush.
Thank God for my shit luck with a fly rod.
When I left Denver at six o’clock this morning, I told myself I was simply doing what Hunt said to do by getting out of town and searching for a change of scenery, one that included a little fall fishing. I packed a bag, put my fly rod and gear in the truck, and set the GPS for Paonia. Not Hotchkiss. Because the nine miles between those two towns seemed like sufficient proof that I wasn’t driving halfway across the state for other, less sound reasons.
Maybe if the fishing had been good I would have stuck to the plan. Maybe if the rainbows were leaping out of the Gunnison River to greet me, that would have been distraction enough. But a cold snap last weekend meant the fish wouldn’t take to anything I tried, so nothing, I mean nothing, was happening. I gave up after a couple of hours and reeled in.
Before my waders were off, I had already rationalized this side trip to Hotchkiss by claiming it was about the apple butter. Whitney had an orchard and a business, after all. I was just a prospective customer interested in patronizing said business.
Sure. Apple butter. Not the least bit nutso to use a condiment as legit reasoning.
Now I’m standing in her kitchen and she’s looking at me like I’m covered in honey and she’s a brown bear with a wicked sweet tooth. I can’t decide if that look means she wants to deck me or ride me. Maybe she can’t decide, either.
In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve managed to insult her business acumen, bark about her letting strangers in—hello, irony—and bite her head off when she needled around about my nameless apple butter contaminator. I’m lucky she hasn’t decked me yet. Maybe I should have brought a doctor’s note. Hunt could have written something up to explain my current state.
Please excuse Lowry from any random instances of stupidity or the inability to explain why he might show up at a stranger’s house, claiming he needed a condiment replenished. He has a concussion. Also, he’s an impatient asshole ninety-five percent of the time and this only makes it worse. Most important, please do not somehow manage to make a pair of overalls so strangely hot, he might consider dragging said overall wearer to the kitchen floor so he can kiss and nip the bare skin of her neck for an hour—or ten. He’s not supposed to do anythi
ng but bird-watch and sleep, so tackling you to the floor for said neck nuzzling is not an option.
What we’ve learned today is that I should not be without a plan. Ever. I’ve built an entire career—fuck, my entire life—on a self-imposed regimen of routine. Shove a stick into the spokes of that routine and I’m off the rails before you know it.
Whitney steps around me to rummage in a cupboard. Once she moves out of my sight line, I close my eyes for a beat before stalking over to her kitchen table, dragging out a chair, and slumping into it.
“You want some tea?”
Up on her tippy-toes, Whitney stretches to reach into the dark recesses of a cabinet that’s jammed to the gills with stuff. If she isn’t careful, a pile of crap is going to topple out and onto the floor. She twists to pat around in the back of the cupboard and when she does, the side of her body comes into view. Her tank top rides up, exposing a swath of bare skin on her torso—golden and smooth—tapering to the space where her baggy overalls hang low enough to offer a peek of the lacy aqua-colored trim on her panties.
Immediately, I close my eyes. Do not even think about more here, Lowry. Do not tumble down this enticing rabbit hole to consider the specifics of that lace trim.
But it’s already too late. Just that tease of lace drives all kinds of possibilities to the forefront of my mind. Is she wearing something tame? Like those little boy shorts that women seem to love these days? Or maybe something hotter, a style that barely covers the essentials?
Goddammit. Stop. She’s offering you tea and you’re thinking about her underwear. I give my head a shake and squeeze one hand into a fist.
“Tea. Sure. Just nothing with caffeine.”
She tosses one of the boxes back into the cupboard and it falls on its side to lie atop all the other junk in there. A nudge with her forearm closes the door. The urge to quick-step over to that cupboard and fix that unholy mess, or at least put the damn box right side up, rises inside me.
Before I can follow through on that thought, she bends over to light one of the stove burners, and the sight of her ass turned in my direction is distracting enough to tame the irrational need to clean up the cupboard. Because I’m sure if I went over there and started in on an unrequested honey-do to organize her kitchen, that would only do more to confirm the crazy.
The stove clicks to life, followed by a hiss of the gas seeping up to set the flame. With lime-green enamel and white accents, the stove appears to be decades old, the kind of relic that most people would have gotten rid of years ago.
Adding to the vintage vibe, figurines of those creepy cherub-faced Hummel kids my great-aunt loved so much, along with a bunch of tacky decorative collector plates, line a high shelf that spans the radius of the kitchen—all covered in years of grease and dust. A quick survey of the rest of the house reveals that Whitney obviously has a thing for retro in all forms.
The living room alone looks plucked from a soundstage for Mad Men. A low-slung sofa and love seat in burnt-orange velvet fill most of the space, with a boomerang-shaped coffee table placed in the middle. A few ornate, gaudy gold table lamps sit on tables covered with yellowing doilies. In a different house, perhaps a mid-century modern renovation, this would be hopelessly hip. But here, the look is all grandma. As in don’t put your feet on the coffee table, you’re sitting too close to the television, and turn down that music before you go deaf.
A comment about her home décor is brimming on my lips when my phone rings. I slouch down to pull it out of my pocket and Hunt’s name flashes on the display. While taking a side-glance at Whitney, I bring the phone up to my ear.
“I’ve got to take this.”
She gives a blasé shrug of her shoulders and then sweeps her hand out toward me in a have at it gesture.
I utter one word when I take the call. “Hunt.”
One word from him in response. “Lowry.”
In a battle of stubborn wills, Hunt and I might manage to drive each other to the brink merely with our mutual ability to say as little as possible whenever we choose. Sometimes I want to just shake his hand and congratulate him on being a worthy nonverbal sparring opponent. Other times, I just want to put him in a headlock until he sputters the word mercy and gives in.
Silence for a moment. Hunt sighs loudly.
“You know why I’m calling, so just give me the update. I didn’t dial you up to listen to your mouth breathing in my ear. Three questions: How are you, where are you, what are you doing?” Another sigh that ends with a snort. “Speak, Lowry.”
“I’m fine. I’m out of town.”
“What are you doing? And be more specific about what ‘out of town’ means. Because if you say Vegas or Cancún, I’m going to lose it.”
“Hotchkiss, on the Western Slope. Doing a little bird-watching, just like you told me to.”
There’s enough ambiguity and possible condescension in the bird-watching reference to spark Whitney’s interest and as the teakettle starts to whistle, she shuts off the burner while also managing to shoot a withering look my way.
I tilt the phone down incrementally and speak in her direction.
“I didn’t even mean it that way—relax. I’m bound to say something else truly offensive at some point, so you should save any outraged expressions for when I do.”
A laugh erupts from her and once she’s let it all out, she shakes her head, turning back to pour hot water into the two mugs she’s set on the countertop. The mugs are thick-handled jadeite, in a minty-green color that evokes luncheonettes and coffee shops—back when coffee shop meant blue plates and bottomless cups, not overpriced frozen concoctions that pack more calories than actual coffee.
“Who the hell is that?” Hunt barks into the phone, then manages to lower his voice a notch and speak measuredly. “Pretty sure I said ‘no girls,’ Lowry. Women, as a general rule, are not relaxing. They’re work and trouble and fun. None of those things are on the menu for you right now.”
A mug appears in front of me, placed there by a delicate hand with those soft fingers I remember too well. Her nails are unpolished and trimmed relatively short, but nothing about that reads as unfeminine, merely natural and unfussy.
“Calm down. We made pear chutney together. Now we’re drinking hot tea. The kind without caffeine.”
“I call bullshit. Is she wearing clothes? Because the only way what you just said might be true is if she also happens to be naked.”
I look up and take an inventory of Whitney where she sits in a chair opposite me, tugging on the sides of her tank top so that it covers her properly, then pulls her legs up to press against her chest. Once she’s comfortable, she locks her gaze on me.
“Nope. She’s definitely not naked. Unfortunately.”
Despite the glare that accompanied her interpretation of bird-watching, this time—when my words are anything but subtle—I don’t find myself on the receiving end of a scowl or a swift kick to the balls. Instead, Whitney’s widened eyes focus on mine, soft and heated, even when there is still surprise evident in how her mouth has dropped open a bit. Hunt proceeds to grouse on, mostly about me making brainless fucking decisions. When he finishes by hollering my name way louder than necessary, I snap my focus back to him and lower my voice.
“Look, I did what you asked. I’m following all of your rules and I have this under control. I’ll see you on Friday.”
My phone thuds to the tabletop after we exchange curt goodbyes and I end the call, tossing it facedown. I thread my index finger through the small handle opening and lift it up to take a small sip, all while carefully avoiding Whitney’s stare.
When the tea hits my taste buds, I want to flop my jaw open and let the vile liquid just dribble back into the mug. I don’t even like tea particularly—with the exception of authentic sweet tea from back home—but this is beyond bad. Worse than the musty, weak herbal tea that I was expecting. It tastes like someone dropped my nana’s potpourri into a teakettle, then strained it through a fine sieve of red clay. I take
a labored swallow and put the mug back down. Whitney lets out a snort.
“Are you even capable of insincerity? You know, the polite kind most people use to get through basic social interactions? Or do you always show all your cards? Because you couldn’t look any closer to spitting that out right now.”
I shake my head and let my tongue roll out of my mouth for effect. “Not really. Bullshit isn’t my thing. What is this? It tastes like dirt and air freshener.”
Another laugh, but muffled because she’s just swallowed a mouthful of the liquid torture.
“It’s a rooibos blend. I can make you something else.”
Waving my hand in the air, I brush off the offer and not so subtly shove the mug farther away from me on the table. The room gets quiet, all except the ticktock of a clock. Finally, Whitney breaks the silence.
“I’m guessing if I asked what that phone call was all about, you’d say ‘nothing.’ Right?”
With her knees still tucked up to her chest, feet crossed at the ankles, and one hand toying with the handle on her own mug, Whitney focuses her eyes on my chest.
I take the opportunity to look at her more intently, even if it’s only for a few moments. Hoping that in these stolen seconds, when I take a good look, I’ll see the same gorgeous girl I did in Denver. If not, if all I see is someone unremarkable, I’ll be disappointed, no doubt. Superficial or not, I want to see a woman worth driving five hours for, no matter how insane that sounds.
Sunlight through one small window above the kitchen sink shows everything. The same slightly tan skin, flushed a bit from the heat thrown off by a pot of chutney and a boiling teakettle. The same sexy mess of wavy hair pulled up haphazardly with a few tendrils escaping from the sides. A slim, graceful neck that begs for a few nips of my teeth, just hard enough to leave faint marks, proof I’ve been there. That’s all I need to see. Whitney couldn’t be unremarkable if she tried.
