“It was too much for me, losing him and then the baby. I didn’t cope too well.” Another tear falls. I swipe at it and move in to kiss her cheek. “I can’t go through that type of loss again. I had to stay strong for Emma, but I crumbled whenever I was alone, Pierre.” Her sobs overtake her, her shoulders shake and she’s sniffling back the tears.
Without hesitation, I cradle her in my arms. I wrap her up, and hold her protectively. I won’t let her put that much stress on herself again. I won’t lose Holly because of my selfishness.
Holly and I spend a while tangled together. I move her to sit on my lap to have her closer to me. I enjoy feeling the swell of her breasts pushing against my chest. I adore feeling her heartbeat calm and become one with mine. I love to hear the soft air escaping her cherry-red lips as she breathes, knowing I am the one she is leaning on.
“Pierre,” she says after a long silence.
“Oui,” I answer as I draw gentle figures with my fingertips on her back.
“I think I like you.”
I chuckle and press my lips to her hair. “I should hope so.”
“No, I mean I think I like you a lot.”
My laughing stops. Instead my heart fills with joy, and I hold her closer to me. Her arms tighten around me and we quietly sit until a certain little girl calls out for both her mother and me to go push her on the swings.
And of course, we both happily oblige.
TWENTY-TWO
Holly
Pierre lifts a sleeping Emma and carries her toward his home. “Here are my keys. Please unlock the front door.” He awkwardly holds his hand out with the keys jiggling around his pinkie finger.
I take the keys from his hand and go to open the front screen door.
“The small silver one unlocks the screen door, and the big gold one goes to the inside door,” he instructs me in a hushed tone.
Emma’s all played out and she crashed hard in the car on the ride over here.
When the doors are open, Pierre takes Emma over to the family room and places her on the oversized sofa. She turns over and snuggles into a cushion while he gets a blanket to place it over her.
He links our fingers together and leads me into the kitchen, where I have clear view of Emma sleeping.
“Café?” he asks but doesn’t wait for me to answer. He switches on his coffee machine and turns to lean against the kitchen counter, waiting for it to reach temperature.
“Sure,” I say, as I pull out the high kitchen chair and sit.
“I think we need to talk about what happened today,” he begins, softly.
“I’m sorry, Pierre. I didn’t mean to unload everything on you. It was just difficult. With Emma asking, and the look you gave me. And the way you were today, it’s just…”
“What look did I give you?”
“It’s hard to explain.” I shrug my shoulders and look away from his intense, steely gaze.
“Non, you must talk to me.”
“Sometimes I can’t. You make it difficult. There’s something about you that makes me hesitant to say what I need to.”
“And why is that?”
I simply shrug and still refuse to look at him.
“Mon chéri, you must talk to me. I cannot help you if you do not use the most useful instrument God has given you.”
“You’re really intense, Pierre. And the way you look at me, sometimes I think you look at me like there’s something wrong with me.”
“There is nothing ‘wrong with you’, as you say. To me you are the only magnifique, beautiful, sexy woman on this earth. I need to look at you and make sure you are real and not just a dream.” He turns his stare away for a split second and chuckles. Like what he said is a private joke I’m not privy to. “You are real, and you are perfect. But I want more, from you and from me. I want more for both of us.” He returns his gaze to me. His eyes have turned a dark grey. He’s hungry, ravenous, wanting to consume me.
My body reacts to his obvious need. My heart beats double time. I can feel it smashing against my chest. My body heats and my blood becomes blistering hot as it rapidly travels through my veins. There’s a knot of explosive anticipation sitting deep in my stomach and my throat has become parched for liquid. I’m greedy. I want him. I want to feel him move inside me, take me and pleasure me.
“Mon chéri,” he says in a deep, guttural tone, as he slowly walks around the kitchen island.
I swing around on the bar stool, and open my legs, waiting for him to step into my personal space.
“We both are not strangers to wounded souls,” he whispers as he steps between my legs and sweeps my hair over my shoulders to my back. “We must let go of the hurt.” He kisses me once on my cheek. “Let us find our happiness.” Pierre moves to kiss me on the other cheek. “Together.” His mouth descends onto mine.
I hug him and draw him closer as I wrap my legs around his hips. My head is tilted up, his hands are on my cheeks and his thumbs are gently brushing the skin beneath my eyes. Pierre’s tongue softly traces the shape of my lips. He’s asking for permission, as his hands lightly coax me into a relaxed state. “It is alright to let go, to allow me in. I will not hurt you,” he murmurs against my lips.
Feeling fresh tears behind my eyelids, I struggle to keep them at bay. Trying not to prevent the flood gates from opening, trying not to break down and cry.
“I will never hurt Emma,” he says and once again presses his warm lips to mine.
So many mixed emotions are ripping through me. If I open up, I’m making myself vulnerable to being hurt. To being crushed and left alone. What if? What if he goes to work one day, and he never comes back again? What if Pierre and I have a baby and I’m left with two children to look after, never to see their dad again? My heart is guarded. I’ve constructed these walls so high around me, I can’t even see the top anymore.
“Talk to me, let me in,” he whispers again. His hands slip from my face, down the column of my neck to the top of my shoulders. And slowly they touch all the way down to my lower back, where Pierre lifts my t-shirt and splays his hands possessively on the heated skin at the small of my back. “Let me in,” he repeats, his mouth laying feather-light kisses down the front of my neck. “Please, Holly, give us a chance.” His plea tears me apart.
“How can you be so sure?” The words come out all strangled.
“Because I know I want you. And I know I’ll love Emma like she’s my own.” He pulls his mouth away to look at me. Maybe he’s searching for a reaction. But I don’t know what to think about this.
“We’ve barely been together for a minute. How can you be saying these things already?”
“Because I know my heart.” He explores my eyes again, but I can’t look at him.
“This is way too fast.”
“I agree.”
My eyes look up into his, and now it’s my turn to wonder what the hell is going on. “Why are you adamant about pursuing this?”
“Because,” he pauses and his lips touch mine. The way he kisses me so chastely and carefully, I feel like he needs me to be close to him. “I dreamt of you, even when I hadn’t met you. It is time we heal each other. We don’t have to rush. We have time to discover each other, to learn to be a couple and a family.”
“That’s the problem, we only have a blink of an eye.” And it hits me, so forcefully that my body begins to shake. Tears stream down my face, streaking my cheeks. And I finally get it.
My walls start to crash around me, to crumble at my feet as I finally realise what I said and what I need.
As the tears fall and my body collapses, Pierre becomes my pillar of strength. He morphs into the man I need; he lets me tumble into my fear, ready to catch me and bring me back to life again.
“I won’t let you fall,” he says as his arms embrace me further. “You are everything I need and I want to be everything for you. I’ll never shut you out. Lean on me.”
I feel my tears soak through Pierre’s t-shirt, but he doesn’t move me aw
ay. Instead he closes any gap between us and hugs me tighter.
A long time passes. It’s quiet, but it feels so right. We fit as one; we belong together.
As my breath calms and my tears stop, I hear a rustling from the family room. Pierre brushes the wetness from my face.
“I want you to come here for dinner on Tuesday night. Can you organise it?” Pierre asks in a hushed voice.
“I should be able to. I’ll need to check with Bronwyn first, but I can let you know.”
Kiss. “Please.” Kiss. “Do.” Kiss.
“Mummy, are you okay?” Emma asks as she stands at the entrance into the kitchen.
Pierre pulls away, and goes back to the coffee machine. As I open my arms, Emma steps into my hug and I kiss her on top of her head. “I’m perfect, Peanut.”
“I’m tired,” she grumbles.
“I know. We’ll go home soon and you can have a bath and dinner and jump into bed.”
“I’m going to make lasagne for dinner tonight. My very own recipe. I could really do with some help,” Pierre says to no one, though I’m sure he wants Emma to joyfully ask if we can stay.
Right on cue, Emma sparks to life. Any signs of being tired quickly evaporate at the thought of helping Pierre cook. “Can we? I want to help Pierre. Can we stay, Mum? Can we?” she squeals with the biggest smile.
“As long as we’re not out too late, because you, missy, are tired.”
“Not now.”
“Come, ma petite, we will make the tomato sauce, the base of any good lasagne. Do you know what it is we need first?”
Emma shakes her head.
“First we must clean our hands,” he says cheekily.
I sit and watch my daughter with Pierre. They work effortlessly together, synchronised in the kitchen. He shows her what to do, and she follows his instructions.
There’s a moment when time stands still. A second where Emma is stirring the rich tomato sauce, and Pierre smooths her hair down, then leans in and gives her a kiss on the top of her head, before he turns to get the rest of the ingredients out of his fridge.
I’m not sure he notices what he does; I’m not even sure he knows I’m watching them. But at that moment, Emma and Pierre smile at each other. A golden glow of happiness floats around the both of them. A moment of contentment and of pure, innocent love, an affection that is usually shared between a parent and their child.
My heart jumps a beat, because Pierre has claimed Emma as his own. In this one perfect day, he’s found his family.
TWENTY-THREE
Holly
“Are you alright?” Bronwyn asks as she sits and starts sipping her coffee.
“Yeah, I suppose I’m just nervous.”
“I don’t want to sound like a condescending old fart, but you know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
I pick my coffee cup up and sip on my scorching hot caramel latte. “I know, and I also know what you’re saying is because you care for me and Emma.”
“I love you both. You’re my blood.” She takes another mouthful of coffee. “And if you’re worried about Emma, she’ll be fine. All she talked about after your trip to the park was Pierre this, and Pierre that. I think she’s quite taken with him. She’s even started saying ‘oui’ instead of ‘yes’.” She shakes her head and smiles.
“When we left his house, the first thing she asked me after we got into the car was when can we go back there again because he promised her he’d teach her how to make pizza from scratch.”
Bronwyn chuckles but soon the atmosphere shifts and I think she has something she wants to say to me. She finishes her coffee, stands and goes to the sink, rinsing her cup and leaving it there.
“It’s okay to want more, Holly.”
I avoid her eyes, swirling the remnants of my coffee around in the mug. I just nod my head, not wanting to rely on my voice to say anything in case it comes out all shaky.
“I love Stephen, and I know he’d want you to be happy. This thing you have with Pierre, it’s not something that will disappear. There’s a strong bond there and I can see it in you and Emma.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, but still say nothing. I just nod my head.
The air in the kitchen shifts again when Bronwyn walks over and hugs me. “I’m proud of you. You’re a good person and a good mum.” She kisses the top of my head and begins to leave the kitchen. “Oh before I forget, I have a date next Tuesday, so I won’t be able to look after Emma if you want alone time with Pierre.”
“You have a date?” I eagerly ask as I stand and go to follow her.
She stops and turns her neck to look at me over her shoulder. She waggles her eyebrows at me, “Oui, I do.” She laughs and goes toward her room.
Great, now even Bronwyn has started saying ‘oui’.
***
I picked Emma up from school and we spent an hour at the library while she read to me from a children’s book by a local author. She loved it so much she wanted to check out the next book in the series.
When we got home, I told her I was going to Pierre’s for dinner and she ran into her room to get changed into a dress saying, “I’ll make sure I look real pretty, Mummy.” She was incredibly disappointed to learn she wasn’t coming, but I did promise her I’d make a date for her and Pierre to make pasta together.
Now I’m driving toward his house, and every butterfly in the world has decided to flutter crazily in my tummy.
I’m expecting tonight, after dinner, Pierre and I will have sex. It’s been over a month and nothing has happened except some pretty heavy kissing and groping.
If what I’ve felt through his clothes is anything to go by, then I’m damned well nervous and excited to discover what’s going on under them too.
I’ve come prepared with a pack of condoms and hope my expectations aren’t delusional. It’s been nineteen months since I’ve been intimate with anyone, and although I do enjoy my battery operated boyfriend, I can’t cuddle him or kiss him or feel his hand as he gently trails it up and down my back.
As I pull up to Pierre’s home, I double check my face in the rear-view mirror to make sure my eyes haven’t suddenly leaked and made me look like a panda, and that my lip gloss is still on my lips and not all over my teeth.
Before I even realise it, Pierre’s at my door and holding it open.
“Mon chéri, you look absolutely delicious,” he says as he leans in, unbuckles my seat belt and holds his hand out to me to help me out of the car.
His hair is wet, most likely from a recent shower, and he’s wearing black denim jeans with a mint green t-shirt. For whatever reason, the green really makes his grey eyes stand out. “You look very handsome yourself, Pierre.” I take his hand and swing my legs out of the car.
I lean in to give him a kiss, but he turns his neck and offers me his cheek. “No kiss?” I ask as I look-up at him, mustering my own ‘sexy as hell’ look.
“Oui, there will be kisses, but not right now.”
Damn. How long is he going to make me wait?
“Okay. I can play that game,” I say, cheekily.
“We will see. Where is your bag?” He looks on the back seat but it’s not there. “What, no overnight bag?” His eyebrows draw together as his forehead crinkles.
“Oui, there is a bag, but I think I’ll leave it where it is,” I brazenly tease him.
“Intolerable woman,” he mutters as he stands by the trunk of the car and waits for me to pop it open. He’s smiling though, so he knows it’s all in fun.
He grabs my bag in one hand, links our fingers together with the other and silently leads me inside.
The moment we’re inside and the door is closed, he kneels before me and places my hands on his shoulders. “Lean on me,” he says as he runs his hand down the back of my calf, gently lifting my foot to slip off my shoe.
Pierre carefully places my foot down and tenderly trails his hand down the back of my other leg, starting from the top of my thigh. He stops at
my knee, softly massaging, then continues his journey to my foot as he slips the other shoe off.
He places my shoes beside his by the front door, then turns and kisses the top of each of my feet. Holy crap, I’ve never had a man do that for me before. Ever.
As he stands he wraps his arm around my shoulder, and leans in to give my forehead a sweet, affectionate kiss. “Come, tonight it is about me worshipping you.” Oh my God, just the way his tongue twists around the words, his deep sensual voice and the accent behind them, it’s impossible not to swoon over him.
He leads me away from the kitchen, and he opens a door. The room is encased in darkness. The only illumination is coming from two small, flickering candles. The bathroom is warm and an enticing smell of berries floats through the air. I inhale deeply, close my eyes, and savour the aroma. It reminds me of homemade berry jam, the thick and flavourful smell of berries simmering with the tempting, sweet juices bubbling away.
Pierre pulls me into the bathroom and when I open my eyes and step inside, the first thing I notice is the huge claw-foot, old-style bathtub, like you’d see in a black and white classic film. The head and foot of the tub are raised up so you can lean against it and relax. It’s plenty deep enough to submerge your entire body. The faucet is running, filling it about half-way with warm water that has turned a milky white from whatever fragrance Pierre has splashed in it.
“Come, this is about you,” he says as he lets go of my hand and pulls on the end of my shirt. “May I?” he asks waiting for me to give him permission to remove my clothes.
Holding his hungry gaze, I nod once and feel my shoulders relax. Pierre lifts my shirt over my head, delicately folds it and places it on a chair in the corner of the massive bathroom. He returns his gaze to me, first taking in my dark purple bra, and allowing his gaze to fall to my tummy then the top of my jeans.
His warm hands find my hips and Pierre leans into me, skimming his nose through my hair, inhaling deeply but not saying a word.
He moves his hand to caress my ribs, drawing lazy figures up and down my heated skin. I think he’s going toward my bra, to undo the back, but he doesn’t. He brings his talented fingers to the front of my jeans and whispers, “May I?” Waiting for me to respond.
Monster Chef Page 13
