by Liora Blake
Slinking back down to the mattress, I give up his cock and use my hands to draw across my own body, breasts first, then over my belly, settling between my legs with all my fingers and watch him, watching me. In that gaze, there is pure want. No judgments. No demands beyond asking me to say he is enough. No expectations that I can’t meet. Just this man and no one else? No problem.
When I tell him to get down here, he quickly rolls the condom down and drops heavily onto outstretched arms around my head. Then, with one of his arms slinking around to pull one of my legs up and push it against my chest, he presses inside.
We try to make up for going hard and fast last night. With something like missionary, and all that “looking at each other and shit,” as he puts it. Only a few minutes in, though, something volleys inside me, and before he can stop it, I’ve turned to put him under me, where the intensity of it all drives my hips into frenzied jerks against him. So much for slow morning sex, because once he latches his fingers to my hips and encourages every move with a push and a pull, it’s just like last night. Rowdy, wild in good measure, until I think my head might explode.
Jake’s plan to cook for us hits a small snag upon discovering only bagged salad mix, condiments, and yogurt cups in my fridge. None of which he can turn into breakfast, he claims with a shout from where he stands in the kitchen, while I remain in bed, still trying to remember my middle name because all the feel-good hormones in my body make thinking tremendously difficult. Jake insists, with another holler up the stairs, that we walk to the A&P for at least a few groceries to get us through the next two days before he leaves. When he finds me still tucked under the covers after he is fully dressed, he unceremoniously yanks all the covers on my bed off my naked body. A rough tug on my ankle further proves his point that it’s apparently time to get up.
“You know where the store is. Walk your butt down there. I’ll be right here when you get back.”
“Hell, no. I’m not walking around Crowell without you. You’re like my passport. Get up. Do you want me to pick out something for you to wear? I’m thinking a pair of baggy cargo pants and an oversized turtleneck. With hiking boots.”
I scrunch up my nose and flail my head around on the pillow. “Fine. I’m getting up.”
“I’ll be waiting downstairs. If I keep looking at you spread out all naked in bed, we’ll starve.”
Before I can do something seductive to entice him toward starvation, the sound of his boots stomping down the staircase forces me to shuffle toward the closet, where I tug on a pair of leggings and a loose cashmere tunic sweater that slips off one shoulder more often than it should. Here’s hoping that the combination of a little bare skin exposing the nip marks left behind from his teeth last night and a pair of tight leggings inspires Jake to mad-dash it through the grocery store. The very idea of us shopping together in the A&P for all to see makes my stomach hurt. I’m not particularly ready to put any of this on display to the inescapable rural grapevine just yet.
Downstairs, I find Jake on his back, under my kitchen sink. I nudge his knee with the toe of my wellie.
“Your faucet drips.”
“And?”
Jake adjusts his body slightly to crane his head up into the dark corner of the cabinet opening where the pipes curl under the sink. “I’ll fix it. Do you have any tools here?”
“Most of my dad’s stuff is still in the shed out back. You don’t have to do that, Jake.”
He crawls out and hitches his pants up on his hips. “Yeah, I do. I won’t be able to sleep knowing it drips like that.”
When he stops to wash his hands in the sink, the sight of him there, like a real live handy boyfriend, almost turns my heart to mush. Because the sensation could bring about a fainting spell if I continue to stare at him, I grab the back belt loop of his pants and yank a little.
“If we’re going, let’s go. I want some of these world-famous cinnamon rolls you claim to make. I’m starving.”
“You should be. Riding a guy like that has to be a workout.”
He turns and wipes his hands dry on a paper towel. He’s lucky that he’s so hot. Because that self-satisfied little gleam in his eyes means he knows exactly how much he’s turned my world upside down.
Halfway into our five-block walk to the A&P, Jake stops suddenly. I don’t notice for a moment, likely because I’ve been scanning the surrounding area since we stepped off my porch, praying that all the good God-fearing people of Crowell went to church this morning and will leave us to shop in peace. When I note that Jake’s shuffling walk has gone silent, I stop and turn around.
He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression entirely too annoyed to properly suit how cute he looks. A gray knit beanie covers most of his head, with a few too many shaggy locks curling out from the sides and the back. The guy needs a haircut. Badly.
Jake waits for my eyes to lock on his. “Look, if you just want to play another round of Hide the Misfit, I’m not interested.”
“What?”
“I’ve tried to hold your hand at least five times since we left the house. Guess what? I have a little more self-respect than I did at seventeen. I’m not going to let you treat me like I’m not good enough to hold your hand when we’re on the streets. So if that’s what this is about, we can’t do this.”
When he puts my angst up on display like that, then points out the way it makes him feel, I vaguely want to slap myself. I let a heavy sigh take over and close my eyes, calculating exactly how to explain myself.
“I’m sorry.” Stepping toward him, I slip my hands from my coat pockets and hold them up, palms out, in front of me. “It’s just, you know how this place is. We hold hands, someone sees us, the next thing you know we’re the front-page story in the Crowell Times.”
Jake lets his arms drop. “And?”
“And, we just started this thing. You’re going to go back to California, but I’ll be here, with old Mrs. Weck at the drugstore lecturing me about giving the milk away for free.”
“Jesus Christ. We’re grown-ups. Tell her you like giving the milk away.”
I drop my head to one side and give him an exasperated look. He raises his brows. Fine. This is a stupid thing to fight about, anyway.
I close the remaining distance between us and stick my hand out. Jake narrows his eyes and then drops his gaze to my outstretched hand. Then he shakes his head. Refusing to take my hand, he simply lets it hang there in the cold arctic breeze of a December morning in Montana.
“Not good enough.” He shakes his head again to emphasize the point.
Feeling slightly rejected, but smart enough to know bringing that up right now would scream for a pot-kettle analogy, I tilt my head and raise my brows. “What do you want, then?”
“Kiss me.”
“What?”
“Kiss. Me.” He draws his hands to clasp behind his back and proceeds to sway a little in place. “Right here, on the street where anybody could walk by. With tongue.”
I try not to let the panic inside filter through to my expression. But when a grin starts to twitch across his features, I steel myself and give it up. I kiss him openmouthed, with tongue as demanded, my hands clasping around the back of his neck, pulling him closer and moaning a little into the taste of him. Jake does what he always does: answers my body without discernable pause, using the tease of his tongue and the length of his body pressed to mine to tell me I’m giving him exactly what he wants.
We let our lips come apart enough to breathe and I feel a curve tugging into a smile across his mouth.
“Hear that, Shoelace?”
I manage to emit a soft questioning noise. I don’t hear anything. Other than the sound of my heavy heartbeat and a soundtrack in my head with a screaming chorus about how we should forget the groceries, go home, and get back in bed.
“No cars screeching to a halt, no old w
omen shrieking, no one from the Crowell Times leaping out to get our picture. It’s like no one gives a shit that Jake Holt and Lacey Mosely are playing tonsil hockey on Main Street.”
Groaning, I tell him he’s made his point. When I slip my hand to his, he curls our fingers together and then draws our entwined hands up, putting a small kiss to the back of mine.
Inside the A&P, Jake refuses to push the cart, claiming something about his grandma Sara and how as a teenager, he distractedly rolled into the backs of her ankles one too many times. It sounds like a load of bull; I’m thinking it’s more about him being a guy and this being a shopping cart. Belaboring the topic doesn’t seem worthwhile, though, given that I’m only a few minutes out from the hand-holding debacle. Then, only halfway through the produce section, I manage to pull a Jake and crash right into the back of him with the cart, although I shouldn’t take all the blame: he came to a dead stop without any warning.
“Hey! Keep moving. I’m still starving. I’d love to eat those cinnamon rolls before lunchtime.”
Jake cants his head and stage-whispers over his shoulder without turning to see me.
“Remember when I said that nobody in town gives a shit if we’re together?” He pauses and clears his throat. “One notable exception to that statement.”
Gingerly, I push the cart around him and when Dusty comes into clear view, I stop right next to Jake. Across the store, at the far end of the bakery section, Dusty is tossing a bag of doughnuts into the grocery basket he has dangling from one hand, seeing Jake and I when he turns to walk away.
The two of us freeze in place, but when Jake’s hand comes to find mine, I don’t hesitate, because our fingers wound together is the only thing that feels appropriate given the situation. From across the store, Dusty’s expression is mostly blank, but something nearing sadness flits across his eyes for a split second. Even now I’m vulnerable to any real pain he feels. When it’s just us throwing barbs, I don’t care. When it’s real, I still feel bad. Curling my body into Jake’s, I press my face into the soft fleece of his jacket. His arm comes to wrap around my shoulders, and after a few moments pass, I tilt my head up to look at him.
“Is he gone yet? Neither of you have drawn your sidearms. Is the cowboy duel over?”
Jake chuckles softly. “Apparently we’re going with a very intense staring contest instead. In a battle of wits, I’m the clear winner, but he’s wearing me down with this. I may have to lay you down right here, on top of these peaches, and have my way with you just to claim my territory. Would you be OK with that?”
My sputtering laugh in the relatively quiet store evidently ends the battle, Jake muttering a whisper that Dusty is headed our direction.
“Welcome back, Holt.”
I can feel Jake nod, his body tensing under my grasp. In those three words is intimidation. Whether it’s just Dusty’s ego rearing up or something more, I can’t be sure. What’s clear is that he knows my weakness now. From the way I turned into the secure grasp of Jake, Dusty knows the score.
After a breakfast that would have been more properly labeled as brunch—because we got distracted the second we got home from the A&P—Jake traipses outside and spends the next hour rummaging through the old shed out back. Eventually, he ambles back in carrying a variety of tools, half of which I can’t identify nor care to learn anything about. He fixes the leaky kitchen faucet, then moves on to the pantry door, adjusting the hinges so it doesn’t drag against the frame anymore.
By the time he finishes fixing the loose newel post on the staircase, my hormones are intent on thanking him for a job well done. Because Jake hunched over and furrowing his brow to inspect things, using his strong arms to twist and handle tools so adeptly, does utterly crazed things to my head. When he stands back to admire the work on the staircase, then tells me to try it out, I ignore the stupid post and drag him down instead. The post is surprisingly secure, as evidenced by my using it as leverage a few minutes later.
Now he’s in my kitchen, making dinner. Honestly, nothing is better than this. Cabinet doors open and close, a few pots and pans clang, and all that racket sounds like a love song, because Jake is in there.
Making. Dinner.
Heck if I know if it will be edible, but it can’t be any worse than anything I might try to concoct, so we’re miles ahead already. From my perch on the living room couch, I crane my head toward the sound for a moment, Jake whistling and muttering something to himself occasionally. He’s a mumbling talk-to-himself guy when he fixes things. The first few times I overheard it, I stopped what I was doing and walked in to ask him if he’d said something, but he only waved me away and said it was nothing. After the fifth or sixth round, I decided he would use my name if he really needed something.
Just before he went in to make dinner, he announced he had plans for us in the morning, and despite not knowing what those plans are, I decide to move up my weekly phone call to Ruth Ann so that I won’t run the risk of forgetting. After I dial Ruth Ann’s number, it rings a few times more than usual and an odd pang courses through me.
When she finally answers, I can tell she was asleep, but she insists we talk. Once the haze of her nap clears enough, along with a few minutes to catch her breath, she asks why I’m calling.
“Now, Miss Lacey, I thought your Cary Grant was visiting. Shouldn’t you be spending time with him instead of talking on the phone with me?”
How she remembers all these details of my life, I don’t quite understand. But, dropping my voice into a whisper, I cover the phone a little by cupping my hand.
“He’s making dinner. God knows I can’t help with that, so I figured this was a good time for our phone call.”
“Well, you should be in there enjoying the view. A man cooking for you? That’s a sight for sore eyes.”
“He spent all afternoon fixing things around the house. Can you believe that? Fixing things. With tools. I needed a break from all the demonstrations of his manly aptitudes, anyway.”
Ruth Ann lets out a soft laugh and turns quiet. I’ve started to accept the long spans of silence during our conversations without feeling the need to fill them the way I used to, just content to hear her breathing. Jake mumbling in the kitchen fills the other half of my head, and the two together are squeezing my heart so hard I’m relieved when Ruth Ann starts to speak again.
“Don’t forget your promise to come see me, dear. There are things we have to talk about.”
I want to tell her no, to lie and claim I don’t remember any such promise. That way, it may be impossible for her to say whatever she claims to need to. Whatever she wants to talk about, I’m sure I don’t want to hear it. The end of my job, the end of her being around, all these topics should be off-limits. The instinct to plug my fingers in my ears arises, but I take a deep breath and try to speak without letting my voice betray me.
“Sure, Ruth Ann. After the New Year, OK?”
“Yes. When you decide on a specific day, tell me. I have someone for you to meet when you come up.”
“Of course.”
When I go back into the kitchen, Jake doesn’t turn from the stove, continuing to stir a pot and adjust a dial to turn the flame down.
“You hungry? We’re close here.”
“I think Ruth Ann’s dying,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. “As in, actively dying.”
“She’s really old, baby. It happens to everyone, right?”
Not exactly what I needed to hear. When he doesn’t turn to face me, I press my hands to my face until I’m sure I won’t start crying. Jake finally cranes his head over one shoulder to look at me and, when he sees me drop my hands from my face with a labored exhale, his eyes widen then crinkle. A muttering of curse words follows as he shuts all the dials off on the stove.
“I suck at this stuff sometimes. Too much time around guys on crab boats and in bush planes or some shit, I guess. But th
at was a shitty answer, sorry.”
Jake steps closer, and why he hesitates, I don’t know. Normally, he takes my body into his without thinking first, but here he’s pausing, exactly when I need him not to. And waiting for him hurts more than it should.
But before I can stomp up the stairs, using that now–structurally secure newel post to hold myself up with, he manages to rally. With his arms draping over my shoulders, his head finds a space to burrow into my hair and he gives a heavy sigh that says he finally gets what I need right now.
Him. All his very guy-like solidness, all the parts of him holding me until I’m back to normal. When he kisses my forehead and tells me it will be OK, that he wishes he could fix it, it’s enough.
After some time passes, he murmurs into my hair, “Shoelace?”
“Hmm?”
“How about that dinner? I’m starving,” he says tentatively. His stomach then growls in agreement. Loudly. Because guys are often ruled by two components of their bodies. And, in spite of having teetered on the edge of tears a moment ago, I manage a laugh.
“Yes. Dinner.”
Jake had claimed he wasn’t a gourmet in the kitchen, but somehow he still made spaghetti with jarred sauce taste delicious, appropriately amped up by sautéed mushrooms and meatballs. After we both finish eating, we wash up the dishes together, pretend to watch a movie, and then wander upstairs when the plotline turns too complicated for us to follow along. Also, Jake’s hand made it up the front of my shirt, and that on its own was incredibly distracting.
I’m brushing my teeth at the sink; Jake is in the shower, whistling as he scrubs and rinses. Every so often, he stops and calls out, asking me something entirely random.
“Do you remember that kid who used to eat pencil erasers when he thought no one saw him? What was his name? . . . Derek. Yeah, that’s it. Wonder what Derek ended up doing . . . What’s your mom up to these days? . . . Have you ever had a dog? A cat? . . . Do you still only like country music?”
