by Liz Crowe
“Yes, my sweet?” He turned.
Her wild halo of hair was spread out on her pillow, her eyes wide with worry. She had her Star Wars-themed duvet cover clutched in both hands. The damn girl had a serious obsession with those movies. She’d insisted on a full-bore Rey costume for Halloween, which her mother had made from scratch, complete with the funky ponytails. They’d stopped short of letting her dye her hair brown but hardly a day had gone by for a while when she hadn’t asked them for that, too.
The two giant, slobbering monsters passing for dogs lay on her floor, where they’d stay all night. He stared into their sad-looking eyes and tried to anticipate what Liesl might ask him.
“Why are you mad at Muti?” She used the German endearment, which she usually only did when showing off in hopes of gaining something in exchange—like a hair-dye job.
Ross sighed and leaned in her doorway. “Sometimes grown-ups get mad at each other, darling. It’s nothing for you to worry about. We will be fine. Nothing is…” He’d been about to say “nothing is really wrong.” But that would have been a lie and he refused to lie to his child, regardless of her age.
“It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he repeated. But the words were hard to speak. His throat was so tight with repressed anger it ached. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He felt wrung out after this long, crappy day—hollow and miserable. He’d give anything to turn to his beloved fiancée, hold her close, kiss her and more. But that was not happening and he knew it.
He could hear Elle messing around in the kitchen, making way more noise than was necessary to let him know that she was still in a mood as well. Which she had good reason to be. They’d had their dinner at the restaurant as they always did on Fridays. The staff, over half of whom were paroled and carefully vetted female ex-convicts, had fawned all over Liesl, distracting her from the tension. But there had been no hiding it once they’d all arrived home—Elle and Liesl on her bike, him on his motorcycle, another fairly recent purchase he’d made. They’d bought a loft nearby for its walkability to and from the restaurant, but he’d needed to take a ride that morning to clear his head.
It was no big shock that Liesl would pick up on it. He and Elle were always affectionate around each other—kissing, hugging, holding hands while they sat on the couch watching Liesl’s allotted half hour of television before bed. But for the last month, as they had both descended into a frustrating but somehow inescapable hole of non-communication, he’d sat with Liesl curled up in his lap after her bath, her hair damp against his chest. Elle had stood a while, staring at the screen, then at him, then at their daughter, before she’d turned on her heel and found some bullshit make-work in the kitchen so she wouldn’t have to be around him.
When whatever show they’d been watching had ended, the girl had jumped off his lap and ran to the kitchen, dragging her mother out and pushing her down on the couch next to him as if she could sort out their problems by the force of her will.
“Hold hands,” she’d demanded, glaring at them from the matching leather ottoman.
He’d glanced at Elle, then taken her hand. Liesl had grinned and jumped onto their laps, stretching herself out and rolling around, trying to make them laugh. The mutts, both of which Elle had adopted without warning him while she had been in some kind of weird nesting phase late in her pregnancy, had cavorted around the room, thinking it was play time. He’d glared at them and they’d dropped to the floor, eager to please.
Liesl had sat up, her huge eyes filled with tears. “Mama, why aren’t you kissing Papa?”
“Oh, sweetie,” Elle had said, pulling her into her arms. “My sweetie.” But she’d gotten up and walked away without answering the question, which had set Ross’s teeth on edge. He’d sat for a solid twenty minutes after all the living creatures around him had decamped to Liesl’s room, frozen with frustration, his hand on the couch where Elle had dropped it.
“Your turn,” Elle had said as she’d walked past the living room on her way back to the kitchen.
It had startled him out of his semi-trance, or funk, or whatever the hell had him in its clutches. For a half second, he’d smiled at her, gotten up and followed her into the kitchen, ready to fold her into his arms and engage in a little foreplay. But when he’d hit the wide doorway and seen her with her hands on the stainless countertop, her eyes squeezed shut, her face flushed, he’d whirled away from her and stomped into Liesl’s room.
“I love you, my sweet flower,” he said now, blowing Liesl another kiss.
She caught it and pressed it to her cheek, but her face was a mask of anxiety, which only added to his list of reasons to be pissed off at the damn woman banging shit around in the kitchen. Both dogs gave a brief whine, sensing the general human unhappiness level in their world.
He hesitated in the wide hallway that separated their two bedrooms from the main living area, honestly unable to choose between confronting her and taking a hot shower. He ached all over, as if he’d been working out for three days straight, but he knew the pain came from his soul, radiating out and making his limbs, his jaw, his head, hell, even his feet, hurt. With a sigh, he made the decision for hot water and steam over arguing for the interim. He didn’t have anything new to add to the stew of words they’d stirred up between them. Why repeat himself?
He slouched into their private bathroom and wrenched on the hot water, thankful for the modern heat exchanger system they’d installed as part of the renovations. Using the scratchy, organic bar of whatever passed for soap in his house, he lathered up, rinsed, washed his hair, then stood, letting the shower sluice down his uplifted face.
His mind spun with all that had gone down the last twenty-four hours, but settled on one fact—Elisa Nagel, the woman he loved with every molecule of his being, who’d been wearing the diamond ring he’d given her almost three years prior, refused to even consider setting a date for a wedding. And he didn’t understand what her problem was, other than, maybe, she didn’t love him anymore.
Or maybe she’s rightly pissed at me for what I said to her. For the ridiculous thing I demanded of her, since I took my selfish rage and turned it on her, forcing her into a corner I knew damn well she’d only lash out from once she realized what I’d done.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, turning to exit the doorless shower after shutting the water off, and running right over the woman in question. She stood blocking his way into the bathroom, hands on her hips, her ice-blue eyes dark and pensive. “Excuse me,” he said as he shouldered past her and reached for a towel.
She took a small step away but remained close, which made attempting to dry himself difficult, considering she was naked.
“Can I help you with something?” He kept his voice neutral and turned his back to her so she couldn’t see how much the sight of her had affected him.
“Ross,” she began. He felt her hand on his back. He moved out of her reach. “Please.”
He closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he believed that his erection had subsided enough, he wrapped the towel around his waist and faced her. Steeling himself against the compulsion to pull her into his arms, he feigned nonchalance. “What?”
Elle sighed and slumped forward. With alarm, he noted that the dark circles under her eyes looked like bruises. Her already prominent cheekbones stuck out even farther. The clear outline of her ribs under her skin made his head pound. She had her fingers clenched together. The slump to her shoulders deepened. Ross swallowed the lump rising in his throat.
They stood a foot or so apart for several seconds in total silence. Ross’ skin crawled with anxiety as he stared at her. But that wasn’t his only problem.
“Are you going to take care of that on your own, or would you like company?”
He blinked at her, confused for the moment it took for her to take a step into his space and tug the towel off. The sensation of her familiar palm wrapped around his revived boner forced a groan from his lips. She pressed her lips to his chest and neck as
she moved her hand, slowly at first, then faster and faster.
Ross put his hands on her shoulders, unsure what to do other than what his body was demanding of him. His skin tingled as she focused her attention on the head of his cock, teasing around the edges and flicking his nipple with her practiced tongue.
Don’t do this, Hoffman. You just had sex with her this morning, right before the big fight. You need to talk. You have to talk. You have to…holy Jesus I’m gonna come.
“Stop,” he demanded, using their native German as they always did in private. His voice was hoarse as he pulled her hand off his rigid dick and stared into her eyes. “I don’t want to…” He clenched his jaw, attempting to find the right words. But his body urged him forward, clamping down on his brain’s commands to stop, to talk, to not let sex replace actual communication.
He wanted her so badly, needed her, had to be inside her. Now.
Without another word, he reached for her. She came to him, jumped into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist, angling her hips so the tip of his cock was positioned close enough to her pussy for him to feel her heat. She latched on to his lips, precluding the need for further conversation.
He stumbled out into their bedroom, cursing into her mouth when his shin found the bed before the rest of him. She giggled and that sound relieved him to the point of giddiness.
“Let go of me a second,” she whispered, biting his earlobe.
He did. She scrambled to her knees and grabbed hold of his cock once more.
“I want to taste you,” she declared, her voice low and growly.
He grunted with pleased surprise when she slid her lips over his erection, teasing, licking, sucking, taking him as deeply as possible. His orgasm began rolling up from the soles of his feet—too soon, to his mind. So he pulled her up and pushed her back onto the bed, not wanting the quick ending, as happy as that might have made him. He wanted to please her, to hear her screams and feel her grip his biceps while he stroked her to climax.
She lay back, her arms over her head, and he attempted to ignore how damn skinny she’d gotten—something he’d missed in the last few weeks. She licked her lips, ran her fingers down her pert, small breasts, even touching the mangled nipple that she’d once been so embarrassed about. He stood, hands on his hips, his cock jutting out like a homing beacon.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked.
“Show me,” he demanded, licking his lips.
She bent one leg and exposed the beautiful pink hue of her sex to his gaze. The small piercing in her hood caught his eye, forcing him to grip his dick as she teased and stroked her clit and pinched her nipple with the other hand.
“Ah, God, Elisa, you are so beautiful,” he declared when her back arched and her heels dug into the bedsheets.
He dropped to his knees and yanked her hips close so he could taste the sweetness of her climax. He loved this moment—the exact second of her orgasm—and had shown her how to drag it out with his lips and tongue. He released the hard nub of her clit, sensing her relax while he licked her labia, relishing the delicious, unique taste of her.
Blind with lust, he crawled up between her legs and thrust into her, needing this connection so badly it hurt. She wrapped her legs around his hips, giving him the angle he preferred and stared into his eyes.
“I love you, Ross,” she said. “I love you.”
But he couldn’t hear much beyond the roaring in his ears. He came with a cry of pleasure and kissed her while his hips continued to thrust and roll. They calmed and he remained over her, inside her, willing her to talk to him. But when he opened his mouth to say something, she pressed her fingers to his lips and shook her head.
“No more talking. I need to sleep. Hold me while I sleep, please, my love?” She shifted out from under him and headed for the bathroom, leaving his body sated.
He flopped onto his back, even as the anger rumbled around in his brain, threatening a return. When she crawled under the covers, he rolled to his side and pulled her into his arms, holding her close, the way she’d always preferred, his nose full of her scent as he drifted to sleep.
Chapter Three
One month later
“Elle! I need you in here, please.”
Elle tucked a few dangling strands of her blonde dreadlocks into the bandana she’d used that morning in her rush out of the door before either Ross or Liesl woke. The low-lying exhaustion that had hovered around her for the last year pressed harder on her shoulders, as if she were lugging around a railroad timber that got heavier every day.
Komfort, her restaurant, which had been conceived on a warm summer night on a deck with their bellies full and their minds drifting, had proven easy to birth—thanks to money Ross had saved, a loan from Austin and Evelyn and the expert negotiations provided by Trent Hettinger. While she’d not had unlimited funds to work with, it hadn’t been far from it. Going against their innate German thriftiness, she and Ross had gone a bit nuts, since their location—a long-shuttered and ramshackle movie theater in Hamtramck, an area somewhat off the beaten path of Midtown and Downtown—had been procured for so little initial investment.
She stared at her gleaming, state-of-the art kitchen, already bustling with her hand-picked staff. Several of the women met her gaze and smiled before returning to their various tasks. This whole damn thing had been his idea, of course. Something she’d never in a million years believed she wanted for herself, until Ross had suggested it that long-ago summer night.
As a Cordon-Bleu trained chef and a Master Brewer, she’d always enjoyed working for someone else—using her skills to craft meals or beer and leaving the big picture and bigger headaches for company owners. But something about Ross’ idea had taken root in her brain, turning over and over during the months she’d lived through the horror of being jailed and as she’d faced her worst nightmare in the form of the man who’d made her life a living hell for a decade.
Ross had saved her, without a doubt. Thanks to him and the gargantuan efforts he’d made while she’d been locked up for her violent outburst during her trial, she had walked free of the nightmare and straight into his arms.
She sighed again and rubbed her face with freezing hands, recalling the sex they’d had the night before—as usual, in lieu of actually talking—with a shiver. Thoughts of him, of his lips, his hands, his words, always served to make her knees wobbly and her face hot.
He’d been by her side during the procurement, renovations and early days post-grand opening—mostly from necessity since she’d been either pregnant or nursing a newborn at the same time. His focus on the restaurant had waned once it had opened to decent reviews and steady, if not stellar, business. He’d claimed that he’d done all he could—shopped, planned menus, set up the beer tap system, written some checks. Now it was all hers and he was happy, he claimed, easing back into his life as sought-after brewing consultant. Plus, he loved spending time with Liesl. He’d been the child’s primary caregiver for her first year of life, carrying her on his chest or back in some kind of a contraption, handing her over when she needed to be nursed, then whisking her away so Elle could get Komfort open and running to her satisfaction.
Right after Liesl’s birthday, celebrated with Austin, Evelyn, Rose, Melody, Trent, Taylor, Brock and Kayla out in Grand Rapids, they’d had their grand opening. After that, she’d hired Frau Poller to take over Liesl’s days so Ross could get back to his job. And now, another year and a half later of months spent as the chef and owner, she was so tired she could barely see straight. Plus, she knew she had another problem—one she didn’t want to face, not right now. Not since she’d heard the man she adored demanding that she make a choice between him and their family, or her business. She squeezed her eyes shut, reliving it as the fury rose from her gut all the way to the top of her head.
God damn man—he had a real nerve, talking like that to me.
“Elle?”
She flinched. “Coming, sorry.” She grabbed her coffee mu
g and headed for the manager’s office, dreading the daily round of staff issues, bad Yelp reviews, marketing plans and other crap that had nothing whatsoever to do with making food. “Good morning,” she said to the woman who’d arrived in the middle of the renovation with her high heels, her frizz of hair, huge smile and a promise that she’d earn every penny of the salary she was demanding.
Ross had been smitten, being the male pig that he was. But Caroline, the woman who’d assisted her with staffing, had insisted that Olivia would be their best and most important hire. She had been, without a doubt—an utterly drama-free professional with a laser focus on her staff, the guests, the physical plant of the space. Elle sometimes wondered if the woman even had a personal life. She seemed to live at Komfort—always there, always working, always finding new ways to fill the tables.
“Okay. Lay it on me,” Elle said, dropping into a chair across from Olivia’s massive desk. She sipped her coffee, wincing as the acid burned its way down her windpipe.
“Nothing too much today.” Olivia handed over a daily report—a neat spreadsheet divided into several sections including finances, menus, front of house, back of house, bar. Elle was relieved to note that last night’s take was bigger than the previous Friday’s, which had been bigger than the one before that. “Slow, steady, quality,” Olivia had to continuously remind her when she’d work herself into a panic over empty tables on a weekend.
They discussed the few staff issues, some menu tweaks for the coming months, ran through their Yelp reviews—a task Elle despised but knew was crucial to keeping her finger on the pulse of public opinion—and finished with a quick tasting of a new dessert Elle had whipped up that morning. She preferred to arrive early and open the kitchen, to give herself a few moments of sheer wonder at her luck that she was inhabiting this world where she was the boss. This morning she’d made something called blueberry buckle, a recipe she’d found in an old magazine from the 1950s and that had sounded like a delicious addition to their summer American menu.
