He never touched it and rarely looked at it, but it felt right that it was there, a constant if unvoiced reminder. Not like the lemon tree that screamed at him every day. Dustin walked to the corner and removed the tarp. He sat down on it, closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath. He ran his hand over the arm rest, still smooth to his touch.
He made this for his little girl, he thought, tears welling up his eyes. He took out his pocketknife and ran the blade over the wood. It’s time it got her name.
Faith had lain on the grass, staring up at the meandering clouds, and couldn’t stop the tears from running down her face. Gosh, she was becoming a neurotic mess. She’d needed fresh air and thought wandering along the property would be a good idea – get her legs past the gazebo and into the beauty of the landscape. But her feet had been on autopilot and she’d ended up on the cute little patch near the mighty oak tree. The one Dustin had always said would provide them cover on rainy days.
He said he’d build them a house there, build her a quiet oasis where they could shut out the rest of the world and just enjoy being alive. She still remembered when he’d said it to her. He’d wrapped a big yellow ribbon around the tree, and they’d had a picnic right under it, still dressed in their wedding clothes. He’d carried her from the car so she wouldn’t get mud on her new white heels, and they’d shared their only meal as husband and wife. She hadn’t thought about that moment in years.
She’d grabbed a spare twig, and her fingers tried to strum it, the closest thing she could get to a guitar. Words formed in her mind, writing a song as she wept.
The sorrows of tomorrow have slowly slipped away
and I’m mired in the trials of all those yesterdays.
Simple, those decisions that chased my course away
from the path you find yourself on, where I wish I had stayed.
Regretful – things could have turned out right
Regretful – there weren’t any more nights
Regretful – like a sinner on their knees
Regretful – apologies stolen by the breeze
Faith felt freer walking back up to the house, like she always did when the words had come out. The angst, the fear, the doubt, it all seeped into the song, her steps lighter, the smile not so hard to keep, not so adverse to being reminded of better days.
She’d spent quite a few of those days in this house, at that dining room table, just being content with the moment she was in. It had been hard for her then, the planner trying to see five steps ahead; it was even harder for her now when her future hadn’t turned out anything like she thought it would. But she’d managed it with an Andrews man by her side and an apple tart.
Faith entered the house, and her stomach grumbled in agreement. She could use both of those things right now; one option seemed a whole lot safer than the other. The kitchen was pristine – tarts couldn’t be that hard to find.
“What are you doing?” She jumped at the sound of Dustin’s voice so close, unable to look anything but guilty as she turned. He was looking at her quizzically as he leaned, one forearm braced against the fridge, one hand on his hip.
“Looking for the famous apple tarts,” she murmured with a sheepish grin.
“Ahh,” he said, a half-smile tugging on his lips, “most people are.”
“So, are you going to point me in the right direction?”
He smacked a hand against his stomach. “I finished them off this morning. We’re all out.”
“Well,” she said, slowly crossing the kitchen, “could you make me some?”
“Me?” he murmured in an incredulous tone. “What makes you think I’m the one that makes them?”
She shrugged, stopping right in front of him to lean against the fridge door, their bodies almost touching. “I figure both the Andrews boys can make them. Might be the only thing you can make, always a holy terror in the kitchen. Teach me how.”
Dustin smiled. “I was the holy terror, was I? I believe it was you, Ms. West, that almost burnt down Bea’s kitchen at the ranch, wasn’t it?” He straightened away and moved to the counter.
“That was years ago,” Faith said, waving the comment away. “And I’ve picked up a few things since then.”
“Such as?”
“How to order take-out when my chef has the night off.”
Dustin let out a full laugh at that. “I’m sure Bea wishes you had learned that trick just a tad earlier.” She remembered all too well the fire. They’d already spent a handful of nights looking after the lemon tree, her and Dustin, and she’d finally suggested they grab a bite to eat. It was late, and the place had been deserted, but Dustin had a key to the kitchen, he had a key to everywhere, so they snuck in. He thought she just wanted to grab a handful of picnic food, but she had other ideas.
Tara had always said the way to a man’s heart was his stomach. Her go-to meal was bacon and eggs – guys loved bacon, and eggs were easy to make for the unskilled. Faith had seen her make them and thought it couldn’t have been all that much harder to man the pan. She’d been very wrong.
The bacon grease had spit at her. Dustin had pulled her across the kitchen, under the faucet to run water over her burn, and the pan had stayed on the burner. As they shared a moment, a fire started on the stove. She’d grabbed for a cup of water but, thankfully, he’d stopped her from throwing it. He’d snatched the pan, moved it to the sink, and covered the flames with baking soda to smother them. She’d been so impressed they’d had their first kiss on the spot, surrounded by smoke and the smell of bacon. Bacon still reminded her of him; having a vegan chef cut down on his memory floating up over breakfast.
“I know it now, so that’s progress, right? And there wasn’t that much smoke damage, really.”
“You weren’t the one that had to explain to Bea about the mess in the sink the next morning. I was mighty damaged.”
Faith moved to perch against the island right across from him, mirroring his laidback posture so the tips of their shoes almost touched. “I think I paid you well for your heroism,” she said.
Dustin pushed himself away from the counter and came towards her. “Did you now?” he asked, placing his hands on the tile beside her, boxing her in. “No,” he said with a shake of his head, “no, I’m not sure I remember that. Care to remind me?”
She studied him for a moment before grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling him down towards her, bringing their faces closer together. She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Gonna have to put out another fire first.”
He inched backwards, and his gaze took in the length of her, slinking slowly down her body. She felt her breath hitch in her throat as her pulse quickened. “Nowadays, I think I’m much better at starting them,” he murmured, his eyes pausing at her lips. She couldn’t stop her tongue from darting out to moisten them as he stared.
“Well then, you can teach me how to do that, too,” she whispered.
He grinned suddenly, the sight of his full white smile all the more dazzling because of its rarity. “Ahh darlin’,” he said, “I don’t think you need any of my help with that.”
Dustin lowered his face towards hers, bringing their lips within inches of each other. But Faith blanched and let go of his shirt, pushing him away from her. Every other time their lips touched this weekend had ended in disaster. She didn’t want to keep descending into madness and anger. She used to enjoy his company; she just wanted to enjoy it again.
“Tarts not forest fires,” she said. He was still leaning over her. “You can stand over there and show me how to cook.”
“Can’t,” he said, his eyes alight with humor. “Have to stay close for this lesson.”
“You have to hover to show me how to use a mixer?”
Dustin took a step back at that comment. “Mixer?!” he said, looking aghast. “You want to use a mixer on my two-hundred-year-old pie crust recipe? We believe in tradition around here.”
“What do you use then? A wooden spoon?”
“These
,” he said, grabbing her hands and pulling them to him, forcing her away from the counter. He ran his thumbs over the palms of her hands, trailing down her fingers. “We’re gonna use these.”
Dustin liked the slight look of panic on Faith’s face as he stroked her hands. Walking into his kitchen and asking for a cooking lesson had been bold – she just didn’t know how much. Reminding him of their first kiss hadn’t been the best idea either; he could see her struggling with maintaining an emotional distance, and that was not the right way to go. He’d been the one that asked her to stay, needed her to stay for reasons he didn’t want to examine, and he was tired of fighting. Getting hands-on sounded like the best way to use it.
“Doesn’t easy as pie mean making pie is easy,” she murmured, snatching her hands back. “That does not sound easy. It sounds messy.”
He laughed and turned from her to grab a bowl. He had actually made tart dough earlier, and it was chilling in the fridge, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. “It’s easy once you know what you’re doing. And messy and easy aren’t mutually exclusive. In fact they usually travel together.”
“Around you I’m sure they do.”
He grabbed the butter from the freezer and turned. “Which would you rather be – messy or easy?” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “Ahh,” he whispered as he leaned around her to place the bowl on the counter, “who’s regretting asking for a lesson now?”
“Not me,” she said in her breezy tone of voice. “I’ll endure a lot of things for an apple tart. You included.”
“You’re going to regret saying that,” he said as he spun her around to face her workspace. “Let’s tart it up.”
“God, what am I going to do with you?” She sighed in exasperation.
“I have a few ideas,” he said suggestively before his tone changed. “Now, the best crusts are flaky because of butter. Butter is the answer to everything. Not sure that’s something you’ve had in a while now that you’re vegan. Did I mention these tarts are not exactly vegan friendly? Vegetarians would be all over them though.”
“I’m vegan by convenience not necessity.”
“Who’s vegan by convenience?” he asked as he emptied a canister into the mixing bowl, all the dry ingredients already measured out. The Andrews house made a lot of tarts. “What’s convenient about not using butter or milk or eggs when cooking?”
“Well, since I’m not the one doing the cooking I yield to the one with the chef hat.”
“Oh,” he said, reaching over to grab the chef’s hat his nieces bought for him, “well, today that’s me.” He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Can I expect you to yield?”
“Have I ever?”
His hands moved to her hips, and he pulled her back against him, fitting all of her curves against the hard line of his body. “I can think of a few times.” He released her just as quickly as he’d grabbed her and reached around to cut the butter into small cubes.
“So to make a flaky crust you need to have pockets of fat. That’s where the butter comes in. You need to smear it through the flour.” He demonstrated, tipping the butter into the flour and squishing it between his thumb and first two fingers. “You try.”
Faith reached into the bowl and pressed against the butter. “It’s cold.”
“It’s been in the freezer – it helps if it’s a bit cold. Then it won’t melt before we get done.”
“Like my heart,” she whispered, so low he didn’t think she realized she’d said it aloud. He resisted pressing his lips against her temple but just barely.
“I don’t think I’m doing this right,” she said.
“Make a motion like you’re slowly snapping but use two fingers, not just the middle one. The point is to squish the butter into the flour, so don’t be afraid to do it too hard.” Dustin reached around her until both of their hands were in the bowl. Her wrapped his hands around hers, guiding her fingers. Her body shuddered against his – he swallowed but ignored it. If she wanted to prevent herself from melting, he’d try to oblige.
“How long do we do this for?” she asked, her voice breathless.
“Until it’s done.”
He let go of her fingers, not able to resist running his hands up and down her forearms in a light caress, watching as she worked the flour into dough. He could have stayed like that forever, Faith content in his arms as he touched her.
“I think that’s good,” he finally said, having to clear his throat as their bodies drifted apart.
“That does not look like any pie dough I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s not done yet,” he said, sliding the bowl to the right and moving to stand in front of it. “Don’t you have any confidence in me?” He poured ice water into the mix and started to gently form the dough into a circle.
“I have tons of confidence in you. Always have,” she whispered. He looked over at her, his hands moving on autopilot, and their gazes crashed together. She held his eyes for a moment then looked away. “What I’ve never seen firsthand is your cooking. Maybe Peter’s the one that makes tarts now.”
“Peter couldn’t cook his way out of a paper bag.” Dustin harrumphed, wrapping the dough in plastic wrap and putting it in the fridge.
“That’s it? We’re done?” she asked.
Dustin gave her a stern look. “Does that look like tarts? No, now the dough has to chill. Of course, it just so happens I already have some dough chilling so we can keep going.”
“Dustin Andrews, if you already had dough, why did we even do this?” Faith asked in surprise.
He came back across the kitchen and stood right in front of her, trapping her with his eyes and not his arms this time. “Faith West, you said you wanted a lesson so I gave you one. And the best way to learn is to feel your way.”
“Are we still talking about cooking?”
“Are we?”
She closed her eyes for a moment and ran a hand through her hair. “Yes. What’s next?” Dustin walked her through the rest of the steps: kneading and rolling out the dough, trimming it for the tartlet shells, parbaking them.
“I change my mind,” she said almost an hour later as she was slicing apples with the chef’s hat on her head.
“About what?” he asked.
“Easy as pie – it’s a lie.” He laughed, and she looked up at him, not paying attention to her knife. She hissed as the blade nicked her finger.
“Let me see,” he demanded, grabbing her hand to examine the cut. It was superficial but starting to gush. He pulled her over to the sink and put her hand under the faucet as he grabbed disinfectant and a Band-Aid.
“I’m not sure I should be allowed in kitchens ever again,” she said with a wince as he tended to her injury.
“Too much déjà vu?” he asked.
“Something like that,” she murmured.
He’d been trying to keep his hands to himself, he really had, but when she stood there in front of a sink, a streak of flour across her cheek, looking a little heartbroken, it was like their first kiss was standing in the room with them. He couldn’t resist the challenge any longer.
Dustin brought her bandaged finger up to his lips and placed a kiss against it. She smiled and shook her head at his teasing before his lips moved to her wrist. The thrum of her pulse increased as his mouth descended, her breaths quickening. He placed her hand against his chest and wrapped his arms around her.
“Easy as pie if you know what you’re doing,” he said as his head dipped towards her.
“And do you know what you’re doing?” The question came out a little breathless.
“You tell me.”
He kissed her upturned face, swallowing her reply. The first time they’d kissed in front of a sink it had been spontaneous and unfamiliar. Now her lips felt like a dream, like coming home, a part of him that had been missing. His tongue coaxed her mouth open as her hands came around his shoulders. He knew what she wanted and lifted her off the ground, their faces level as her elbow
s rested against him.
Dustin didn’t know how long they stood there, reclaiming old memories, or how long they would have, if the timer hadn’t gone off. He reached a hand over to stop it but didn’t put her down right away.
“You’re burning your tarts,” Faith said with a grin, prompting her release. She leaned against the counter as he opened the oven. “Hmm, maybe you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“You’re going to pay for that,” he said.
“Am I?”
“Oh yeah,” he said with an impish grin, “I’m not going to give you any of these.”
“But I bled for them.”
Dustin shrugged a shoulder and hid a smile at the aggrieved look on her face. Faith took a towel from the counter and snapped it at him, connecting with his hip. He reached out for it, but she skirted out of his grasp and snapped it again, laughing. He finally grabbed the end of it and pulled her towards him, placing a quick kiss on her lips. “I could be persuaded to change my mind.”
“Oh really?” She raised an eyebrow at him before looking away at the shells on the oven. Her hand slipped under his shirt and made its way to his ribs, the exact spot she knew he liked to be stroked. Her touch had too many wicked thoughts running through his mind.
“Maybe you can have one,” he said. She stood on her tiptoes and placed her lips just under his ear. “Or two.”
Chapter 15
Faith knocked lightly on the door as she opened it, not giving him a chance to refuse her entry. Dustin looked up from the bed with surprise. There was a book leaning against him, obscuring his bare chest, but he obviously hadn’t been reading it.
“You came to me last night,” she said, crossing the room to kneel on the corner of his bed, as far away from him as possible, “I figured it was my turn.” After waiting over an hour for him to come to her. He’d demanded she stay; she wasn’t planning on staying alone.
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