"Or what?" I ask as she trails off.
"Or I can take you straight back upstairs," she whispers, her breath hot against my ear, "and show you just how okay I really am with making love to you."
I don’t wait for another word from her, but instead spin around, press her back against the counter and kiss her passionately. A wonderful, indescribable feeling shoots through my veins as she puts her arms around my shoulders and kisses me back.
There’s no fear this time, no resistance, no alcohol dulling our senses and aiding questionable decisions—this is the real thing. It’s still a terrible idea, but I don’t care anymore.
She giggles as we co
me up for air from our long and passionate kiss, and her laughter again reminds me of Nina. I want Irene so much I can hardly stand it; I need her more than anything right now.
Do you want her more than even Nina? asks a voice in my head, its tone marked with disapproval as if angry that I'm sullying her memory.
Irene lets out a soft sigh as I leave a trail of kisses first down her neck and then down to the curve of her shoulder until my lips finally find the thin strap of her tight-fitting tank top. I want desperately to grab those straps and pu stses firsll them down, to bare her body to me and have her all to myself, but I can wait until we get upstairs again. I think.
Yes—more than even Nina, I silently answer, and I kiss Irene again without a moment's hesitation.
wi
wi
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Chapter XXII
Irene
"Root breaking through the sidewalk in three steps."
The autumn leaves rustle in the breeze as Terrence and I walk arm in arm down the crumbling sidewalk along the Mystic River. The water is slow and languid today, matching how I feel after a second round in bed with him. I’m tired—exhausted in the best way possible, really—and... well, just the slightest bit sore. It’s the good kind, though, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world right now.
I tried to make breakfast for us, but Terrence insisted on taking me out instead. Rather, he insisted that I assist him in his attempt to take me out for breakfast—things can get a little convoluted when Terrence is involved. We’re going out to a nearby diner called Kitchen Little.
The sun shines down through a narrow gap in the clouds, making the leaves overhead glow in beautiful tones of fire and earth. It’s almost too gorgeous for words.
But not quite, I think, and I lean in close to Terrence and whisper into his ear.
"The leaves above us look like a sunset. Blazing reds and yellows intermingled, burning on the branches above us as the sunlight filters through them," I begin. Terrence closes his eyes and doesn’t say anything, but the faint hint of a smile on his lips tells me everything I need to know.
"One short, stout tree up ahead hasn’t made up its mind yet," I tell him. "It has one branch of copper-tone and one yellow, but the rest of it is still green. The other trees have all reached their peak, and if the little one waits much longer, it’ll miss the whole season."
"What kind is your favorite?" he asks. "The leaves, I mean."
I smile and gently nudge him with my shoulder before answering. I know exactly what my favorite is, even though I haven’t seen it in years.
"When I was a girl, there weren’t many trees where I lived," I answer, "but there was an old lady down the block who had an enormous bush in front of her house. Every autumn, its leaves turned the deepest, riches red color. It was a beautiful splash of color against my ugly, gray neighborhood, and I walked by her house every day just to see it. No idea what kind of bush it was, though. My mother called it the burning bush, after the old bible story."
"Where did you grow up again?" asks Terrence, and without thinking, I actually answer him.
"Downtown New Haven."
Terrence’s arm tightens around mine and his eyes widen as if he’s surprised by my answer. After what feels like a decade of silence, he clears his throat and finally speaks up again.
"I don’t have a favorite type of leaf or anything," he says, his voice quiet and uncertain. "For me, the big thing was always the contrast between the colorful leaves and the gray sky. There were a lot of trees where I grew up, and I loved looking out at the woods and seeing the fiery red and orange horizon set against the clouds."
A cold gust comes in off the riv stselooking er, chilling me as it shakes the branches above us. Terrence stares up at the rustling leaves and a wide smile covers his face as his imagination fills with all the radiant colors his eyes can no longer see.
****
Kitchen Little is... well... little. ‘Tiny’ might be a better choice of word, even. The diminutive restaurant looks smaller than my old apartment, and a line of waiting customers stretches out the door and down the sidewalk as far as I can see.
"Um.... Terrence?" I start, nudging him with my elbow. "The line’s like a mile long. Want to go somewhere else?"
"Are you kidding me? No way—this place is the best!"
"No breakfast can possibly be worth waiting in a line like this," I argue, and he gapes at me as if I’ve just insulted his mother.
"You’ve never eaten here before, have you?"
"Nope," I answer, and he sighs and shakes his head at me. What did he expect me to say? I don't own a car and used to live easily eight miles from here. There’s no way I would ever have come here.
"Irene... you have no idea what you’ve been missing," he says. "We’re eating breakfast here, and I’m not making you wait in that line either."
"But—"
"Just get me to the door and watch, okay?"
I bite my tongue and say nothing. He's demoted me to employee status again and his order unexpectedly infuriates me.
"Yes sir," I answer coldly, and just as I’ve made up my mind that we’d only had a one-night stand after all, Terrence leans in and kisses me softly on the cheek, his morning stubble grazing my skin.
"Okay... follow me to the door, then," I tell him, ignoring the kiss. I have no fucking idea what we are right now. No idea whatsoever.
The waiting list—a cracked chalkboard, its once red frame bleached pink from long years of sun—hangs beside the door. As I grab the chalk to add our names to the mile-long list, the door bursts open and an old woman in a blue apron waddles out with an oversized, egg-coated spatula in her hand.
"Terrence! My God, I haven’t seen you in six months now!" she squeals with the slightest hint of a Jersey accent. She yanks him away from me and hugs him tightly, smearing eggs on the back of his shirt in the process. From her delighted smile and almost teary eyes, you’d think Terrence was her long-lost son or something. When she finally releases Terrence from her crushing embrace, I quickly steady him and loop my arm around his again.
"Are you married now, Terrence? You should’ve told me," she says, eyeing me up and down and then smiling approvingly. I turn bright red and shake my head in embarrassment.
"No, this is my new assistant, Irene," he says, glancing in my direction and shooting me a smile. "Irene, this is Dahlia. She owns the restaurant."
My heart does a cartwheel and my knees get all mushy as he leans into me, his shoulder touching mine, but I try my best to ignore it as I shake Dahlia’s hand. She smells strongly of bacon and sausage, and it’s making me uncomfortably hungry.
She looks back and forth at the two of us and then winks at me with a half-smile. Why does everyone else seem to know what’s going on with our relationship except for us?
"Well, don’t just stand here in the cold. Come inside and get cozy!" she says, clapping her hands together excitedly, and then she holds the door open for us.
"The line’s back here, buddy!" shouts a man from halfway back in line. "How about you wait in it like the rest of us?"
Dahlia spins around in a huff and puffs up like an angry mother hen protecting her chicks.
"Oh, so you want to be at the front, huh? Tell ya what," she shouts back to him, her Jersey accent coming through loud and clear. "Go
blind yourself, come back, and then I’ll let you skip the line too."
The man looks down at his shoes and mutters something under his breath as the people in line around him start snickering, and we follow Dahlia into the restaurant.
Dahlia wasn’t kidding when she named her restaurant ‘Kitchen Little.’ The room can only hold six tables, all of which are packed, and the restaurant’s elderly owner instead seats us on two stools at a small diner counter. The counter might as well be part of the kitchen, really—it’s not like we can’t see all the chaos from here. The two waitresses rush in and out delivering orders and taking steaming hot plates of potatoes and eggs as the cooks hurriedly flip omelets and stack pancakes.
Despite the borderline claustrophobic interior and hectic kitchen, I like it here already. It’s an intimate, unassuming restaurant, like a tinier version of the diner I worked at in high school. The wait-staff may be rushing around like lunatics, but the customers are relaxed and enjoying their breakfasts. A few are even reading the morning papers with their coffee, something unheard of at my diner in New Haven. If you hogged a table like that at my old diner, you’d have been thrown out in a heartbeat.
Dahlia brings us today’s menu and my mouth instantly starts watering. Between the sweet aroma of maple syrup and the plates of fluffy pancakes zipping past us on the way to their tables, it feels like a delightful kind of torture.
All it takes at one glance at the menu and I already know what I’m getting.
"Gingerbread pancakes with sweet lemon sauce," I whisper in awe. "Holy shit."
Terrence laughs and closes his menu with a smile.
"So what are you getting?" I ask, immediately regretting opening my mouth as I remember he can’t read the menu. A wave of heat rushes to my face and I turn red in embarrassment.
"I’m a creature of habit," he answers serenely. "One Portuguese omelet stuffed with lump crab, spinach and fresh cream, plus a double side of sausages."
"Want me to read it to you?" I ask, picking up the menu again. "If you want to try something new, I can—"
"That won’t be necessary, Irene," he responds tersely, and then after a moment adds, "but thank you all the same."
I stare at him for a long time before finally speaking up again.
"So, I need you to be open with me here," I quietly tell him. "Do you want my help or not?"
"I’m sorry?" he asks, seeming confused.
"I’m supposed to be your assistant, but if you snap at me whenever I try to help you, this isn’t going to work. If you don’t want me to be proactive offering help, then I won’t. You still have to tell me thato whenevert, though."
He tries to interject but I talk right over him.
"I can’t read your mind. I don’t know what you need all the time," I continue. "Hell, I don’t even know what we are right now. Am I your girlfriend or your employee? I already told you that I can’t be both."
I go silent and wait for Terrence to say something. Just as he opens his mouth, our waitress arrives and ruins everything. I never thought punctual service would be so unwelcome, but there’s a first time for everything.
We give our orders to the cheerful but clearly exhausted waitress and then sit in silence for what feels like mere seconds before our food arrives. The crab in Terrence’s omelet is still sizzling and my pancakes are so fresh off the griddle that they’re still steaming. It just figures that I’d get world-record service at the one time I want a chance to talk.
"We’ll talk later," says Terrence as I surreptitiously nudge his napkin-rolled silverware toward his searching fingers. "I promise."
I want to tell him that he won’t have a later if he doesn’t make up his mind, but the words fall away and my frustration crumbles as he smiles at me. Who am I kidding? All he has to do is look at me with those stunning green eyes and I’m all his.
Terrence closes his eyes, leans in close to his omelet, and inhales deeply.
"It smells so good," he whispers. "What does it look like, Irene?"
"I... um... lumpy and yellow. I mean, it’s an omelet.," I stammer. "Omelets are really hard to describe."
He chuckles and then smiles from ear to ear as he takes his first bite. Without another word, he dives into his omelet as if it’s the most important thing in the world. I take one bite of my delicious looking stack of gingerbread pancakes and my eyes widen at the incredible taste.
"This is... holy shit this is amazing," I moan through a mouthful of pancake, quickly going back for more. It’s like a forkful of Christmas.
"Told you that you were missing out," says Terrence, matching my impropriety with a mouthful of eggs. Now that he’s cut into his omelet, the fresh cream and melted cheese oozes out onto the plate and looks so incomprehensibly delicious that it’s almost seductive. Food shouldn't be turning me on like this.
Dahlia leads another couple to the counter and I scoot my stool closer to Terrence to make room for them to sit. Terrence pulls away from me as our shoulders touch, but then relaxes and leans in close to me again. His touch is warm and soft, and my pulse quickens even though we’re just eating breakfast together.
"Marcus took me here when I first relocated the company from Boston," he says. "Dahlia hooked me in an instant and I’ve been coming here ever since. She makes the best breakfast in town."
"No kidding. I wish you could’ve seen the line outside. She must be set for life on this place."
"If the line’s as long as I’m imagining, she probably ought to expand. She can certainly afford it," he comments, and I shake my head.
"Probably wouldn’t fit the theme," I say, and Terrence raises an eyebrow at me.
"This entire restaurant is smaller than my old apartment, Terrence," I tell him. "She didn’t name it ‘Kitcheniv heigh Little’ for nothing."
"Seriously? It’s that small?"
"There are six tables in here, and that’s literally all it can fit. Those poor waitresses can barely squeeze between the chairs."
Terrence laughs and takes a few more bites of his omelet as the conversation stalls again.
"So, what’s going on in the lab tomorrow?" I ask.
"Marcus and I are working with the lab staff to finalize details on a prototype we’ve been working on," he answers, cutting into his sausages.
"Which one is this? That mechanical arm you made for Verta?"
He shakes his head.
"No, it's just something... well, something I’ve been working on with Marcus for a few years. It’s a side project," he answers and then abruptly goes silent.
"So it’s such a secret, world-changing thing that you can’t even tell your assistant?" I tease.
He goes silent for a long time and closes his eyes, and then he gives me a weak half-smile.
"It doesn’t need to change the world," he whispers. "It just has to change me."
****
I don't know why, but I'm more nervous tonight as I sit beside Terrence in his comfortable reading chair than I was even the first time I was in bed with him. I'm acutely aware of his strong, gentle arm around my waist and his leg pressing against mine. He shifts in his chair and I feel the soft fabric of his slacks caress my leg as sensually as if it was his fingertips. It's as if every sensation is amplified ten-fold tonight.
Last night was pure impulse—sheer desire overriding my self-consciousness and misgivings—and if not for that, I'd never have let myself make love to him. I'd have foregone the amazing experience entirely rather than risk having sex with my boss and becoming my mother.
Yet here I am in his room again, not only dressed to the occasion but practically sitting on his lap.
There's a knock at the bedroom door, and then Terrence's chef, Antonio, opens the door a crack and peeks in. Satisfied that he's not interrupting anything, he quietly scurries in with a small tray laden with a bottle of pinot noir, chocolate-covered strawberries and a single, long-stemmed red rose in a vase.
My eyes fixate on the rose and a strange fear flickers to life in
my stomach. Last night was pure, animal passion, but roses are romantic. Wine and roses are a next step—a step beyond desire toward commitment, toward a relationship I can't have because I'm his employee and he pays me.
...and yet, I'm thrilled beyond words to see it and know that I'm willing to be with him again, no matter how much I tell myself otherwise.
I know I'm willing because of what I'm wearing right now: a gorgeous little black dress from Neiman Marcus that I ran out and bought while Terrence was taking an afternoon nap. It has a deep scoop neck and a two-tiered short skirt with a little flare, and while it's cheaper than my outfit from Stonewear, it's not by much once I add in what I'm wearing underneath it. Good lingerie is absurdly expensive, and I know myself better than to think I'd throw away twenty-six years of frugality the first time I actually have some money. The fact that I bought it even though I've spent most of my life living y lStonewout of thrift stores means I must really want to wear it with Terrence, no matter what the voice of doubt screams to the contrary.
Chasing Wishes Page 19
