Doughn’t Let Me Go

by Hunter, Teagan

  “Coffee together in the morning.”

  Porter smirks at me over his now full coffee mug, leaning back on the counter in the same spot he leans every morning.

  He never sits next to me and hardly ever rests against the island.

  I both hate and love that he keeps his distance.

  This morning I especially love it because he’s wearing another pair of sweatpants, this time black. His shirt is white and plain, and it clings to the still damp spots on his body from the shower he’s apparently just finished if his wet hair is any indication.

  I wonder if the mahogany he always seems to smell like is because of his body wash, his cologne, or if it’s just a scent that’s all Porter.

  “I guess it is. Usually it’s me waiting for you though.”

  “You wait for me?”

  I’m sure he sees the panic in my eyes when the unintended hopefulness in my voice becomes obvious to me. I study the mug in my hands, trying not to study him.

  “Usually, but only because I feel bad that you have to hang with Kyrie all day. You need adult interaction too.”

  I laugh because I know he’s teasing, trying to find a way to make this less awkward.

  So far, living with Porter hasn’t been completely unbearable. After The Pantry Thing, we drew the invisible line and stayed on our sides. We’re doing everything we can to get over this.

  “Why’d I beat ya today? Late night?”

  Please don’t say yes. Please don’t say yes.

  “Hardly. I was at the gym.” I make a face, and he chuckles. “The gym isn’t that bad.”

  “It is if you’re allergic to exercising.”

  “And are you?”

  “Of course I am. Self-diagnosed, thank you very much.”

  His stony eyes dance with amusement.

  It’s weird. Gray is supposed to be dull. Boring. Plain.

  But not on Porter. No.

  On him, gray is vibrant. Exciting. Mischievous.

  “Interested in helping me make breakfast?”

  “You’re finally going to cook?”

  “I mean, we have all these groceries now—might as well use them. Besides, it’s Wednesday.”

  “What does the day of the week have to do with anything?”

  “Ah, that’s right. You didn’t come until after breakfast last week.” He pushes off the counter, setting his mug on a coaster. “I’ll teach you. Come.”

  I rise from the stool, following him across the kitchen.

  He’s going to the pantry.

  The pantry.

  The same one he had me trapped in just a few days ago. Where he pressed me up against the wire racks and reminded me he can make my body sing with just a simple touch.

  He steps inside, looking back at me, and I wonder if he’s thinking about it too.

  If he is, he doesn’t show it. Those same hands that gently ran over my skin grab hold of a box of pancake mix and a bag of chocolate chips.

  Scratch that—peanut butter chips.

  He also grabs some brown sugar and peanut butter.

  “Can you grab the bananas?”

  “Sure.”

  I slide past him. Except I can’t just slide past him.

  He’s Porter.

  My chest brushes against his arm inside the tiny room, and I regret wearing the world’s thinnest bra. My nipples get hard instantly.

  I gulp and push forward, holding the bananas over my chest. Porter glances at the obvious attempt to cover my arousal but doesn’t say anything.

  I see the way his lips twitch though.

  Bastard.

  We exit the pantry and set the ingredients on the countertop. He points to the cabinet nearest me.

  “Cast iron, please.”

  I go to pull it out, but it’s heavier than I expect it to be and the pan slips in my grip.

  He chuckles at me, and I glare.

  His lips turn down in a mocking frown. “Poor Doris, can’t even lift a pan. Damn those gym allergies.”

  “Do you really want to sass me when I’m holding this thing? It’s quite heavy, you know.”

  “Which is exactly why I have no problem sassing you. You can’t even lift it.”

  I roll my eyes in a huff. “I can too. My hand just slipped because of this damn rubber handle.”

  “That sounds an awful lot like an excuse.”

  He just laughs when I growl at him.

  “Finally,” he says as I hand him the pan. “I thought for sure I was going to die of old age waiting on you.”

  “Shut up. What’s next?”

  “For you? Nothing. Just watch the master.”

  “The master?”

  He grins at me. “I’m not just good for my bedroom skills, Doris.”

  I don’t want to be affected by his words, but I am.

  Heat fills my cheeks.

  “Professional,” I remind him.

  He shrugs. “Just stating a fact.”

  I don’t point out that he wouldn’t say that to any of his other employees because we both already know I’d be right.

  I watch him as he moves around the kitchen. First, he switches the burner on, letting his pan warm up while he gets the mix ready. Then he grabs a bowl from another cabinet, retrieves a whisk from a drawer.

  “Pancakes—that’s what’s special about Wednesdays.”

  I don’t say anything, letting him work and talk.

  “It was a tradition dating back to when my ex was pregnant with Kyrie. We continued it after she was born. Every Wednesday we’d get up and make breakfast as a family.”

  He stirs the mix, his movements getting harsher and harsher as he continues speaking.

  “I don’t want Kyrie to miss that just because her mom is gone. I refuse to let her taint it.”

  I remain silent.

  It’s clear he’s stuck inside his own head right now, the anger pouring off him in waves.

  The batter is thick enough, but he continues to stir.

  And stir and stir.

  Then my hand is covering his.

  His movements still, and he looks down at where my fingers lie on top of his. Where my thumb strokes against his skin.

  He exhales a heavy breath.

  “She left on a Wednesday.”

  If I wasn’t enjoying my hand on his right now, I’d grab my chest to try to ease the ache I’m feeling.

  It hurts. For Kyrie. For him.

  Nobody deserves to be left.

  “She’s stupid.”

  He barks out a laugh and I drop my hand as he turns toward me, anger in his eyes.

  “Sorry. I, uh, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, no. I’m not mad. You’re right. She is stupid. Her loss, right?”

  “Yes.” Fuck. My answer came out way too fast. “I mean…” I lift a shoulder. “I guess.”

  Porter tips his head to the side. “You guess, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  “Am I that bad?”

  He leans toward me. He’s too close. Way too close.

  But I don’t step away.

  “Because from what I recall, you think I’m pretty damn good.”

  In bed.

  The words go unsaid.

  But the change in my breathing doesn’t go unnoticed.

  His pupils dilate. I step back.

  There. That’s what I need: space.

  “You’re okay.”

  I move until I’m resting against the island, reaching across it for my coffee because I need something to do with my hands before I do something stupid like touch him again.

  Why the hell did I do that?

  I bring the mug to my lips, and he watches me the entire time.

  “Do you always make the same kind of pancakes?” I ask, desperate for a distraction.

  He doesn’t answer right away, just stares. His mouth opens, then closes, like he wants to say something but he’s thinking better of it.

  Finally, “No. I like to mix it up. Sometimes we go old school
and just do plain pancakes, and sometimes it’s a little wilder, like today. But, no matter what, we do it.”

  “And your travel schedule?”

  We talked about this yesterday, his upcoming schedule when summer ends. He’ll be flying back to go into his company’s office in California at least once a month.

  Luckily, he doesn’t do a lot of traveling for work, but this once-or twice-a-month setup is a compromise he made when he decided to uproot his life.

  It’s the reason he wanted a live-in nanny, and why he’s paying me such a ridiculous amount. There will be times when he’s gone for several days and I essentially have to step in as a parent.

  “I’m always home on Wednesdays. I made sure my schedule allows for it.”

  I smile at that. His dedication to his daughter is admirable.

  If my mother had been half as dedicated to me as Porter is to his daughter, I’d have had a way better life.

  But that’s not what I had.

  You’d think I grew up poor because my mother couldn’t hold a job or something, but that wasn’t the case. She always had a job. She had to if she wanted to support her shopping addiction.

  She got a paycheck all right; she just never spent it on the things she should have, essentials like rent, food, utilities. Instead it all went to trivial things. The trendiest purses. Those heels she only ever wears at the dingy dive bar where she meets her latest husband. Dresses she’ll sit around the house crying in when she gets divorced…again.

  My mother was dedicated all right.

  Just not to me.

  She was dedicated to shopping and relationships with men who never really loved her back.

  Which is exactly why I packed my crap and booked it out of there the moment I turned eighteen, without even graduating high school. She couldn’t report me as a runaway if I wasn’t a minor anymore. I was gone the morning of my birthday.

  Some days I wonder if she even notices I’m gone. Not likely considering she hasn’t even bothered to reach out to me since.

  But that’s all in the past. Now I’m here, living in a town I like and working toward making something of myself other than being Diana Palmer’s daughter, the girl walking around with holes in her shoes and jeans while her mother looks like a million bucks, the girl who’s had more stepdaddies than she has fingers.

  I want more than what my mother ever gave herself.

  “Hello, earth to Doris.”

  I pull myself back to the present. Porter is waving his hand in front of my face.

  He frowns. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” It comes out a croak. I clear my throat. “Yeah. Yes. I’m fine. Sorry, just…thinking about my childhood.”

  His eyes grow sad and he nods. “Not pretty?”

  I laugh a bitter sound. “I’m sure yours was sunshine and roses compared to mine.”

  For the first time, his gray eyes look dull, and the muscles in his jaw tick.

  “What?” I challenge.

  “Nothing.”

  “I once heard a friend say nothing never means nothing. I’d like to think he was right about that.”

  “Winston is never right about anything.”

  “Still,” I press.

  “It’s just…I’d like it if you didn’t judge me for my wealth, okay? Just because you think I’m some rich prick doesn’t mean you know that. You don’t know me.” He turns away, that anger still sitting firmly in his jaw. “Now, can you please get me two plates?”

  I set my empty mug down and pull two plates from the cabinet, setting them next to the stove without another word.

  Porter flips the first finished pancake onto a plate and turns the other one upside down, fitting it perfectly over the top to trap the heat.

  I move around him, back to the coffee pot. I am definitely going to need more coffee today, and I have a feeling he will too.

  “You know,” I say quietly, “I wasn’t trying to judge you.”

  “It felt like it, Doris. It has felt like it, and I hate it. Do you feel like I judge you?”

  “No.” I turn to him, eyes wide. He’s not looking at me. “Of course not.”

  “Exactly.” He pours more batter. “Because I don’t. I don’t care where you came from. All I care is that you’re here now.”

  My hands fumble to get the coffee canister open when I hear his words.

  “For Kyrie,” I say quietly.

  He doesn’t respond.

  Because I know I don’t mean just for her, and he knows it too.

  “YES!”

  I jump at the sudden intrusion, but Porter doesn’t. It’s like he anticipated this interruption, his dad sense kicking in.

  Kyrie finally pops her head into the kitchen. “Pancakes!”

  He spins around, a huge grin plastered to his face like we weren’t just emotionally naked with one another.

  “Wanna see?”

  She races across the floor, skidding to a halt next to him.

  “What kind? What kind?”

  She bounces up and down on her heels, staying far enough away from the stovetop that she doesn’t burn herself while still trying to peer up and see what he’s making.

  “Guess.”

  She inhales deeply. “Ooooh.” She claps her hands together. “Brown Sugar Peanut Butter Banana Explosion!”

  “Your favorite.”

  She wraps her arms around his legs. “You’re my favorite dad I’ve ever had.”

  There’s a stutter in his movements, a quick flash in his eyes before he recovers and runs his hand through her hair, messing it up, and says, “I’m the only dad you’ve ever had.”

  But I see it. I see it all.

  And I have so many questions.

  “I know, and that’s why you’re my favorite!”

  “Good. Now go get dressed. Breakfast will be ready soon.”

  “Is Dory having breakfast with us?”

  “I hope so. I made enough for a whole army. But maybe you should ask her just in case.”

  Kyrie pokes her head out from behind his legs. “Do you want pancakes? They’re pretty good.”

  “Hey, just pretty good?” Porter pouts.

  “They’re the best, Dad.” Kyrie lifts her eyes skyward. “You know that.”

  “I do, but it’s still good to hear.”

  “Missy Fishy, you want the best pancakes ever?”

  “Missy Fishy?” Porter’s head whips around to me. “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s our thing. Never you mind.” I wave him off. “And I’ll be the judge of whether or not these are the best pancakes ever. I can make a mean pancake myself, Little Fish.”

  I feel Porter’s heated gaze on me, and I ignore it.

  “Oh, Dad! We should let Dory cook next Wednesday.” She pats her little belly. “I’ll be the taste tester.”

  “You got a deal.” They shake hands. “Now go get dressed or I’ll burn your pancake on purpose.”

  Kyrie gasps. “You wouldn’t dare! You love me too much.”

  He points his spatula at her. “Wanna test that theory?”

  Eyes wide, she shrieks, “No!” then scurries out of the kitchen.

  Porter watches her go, a sweet smile on his lips.

  When he turns back to the stove, I open my mouth, but he shakes his head.

  “No.”

  It’s quiet, but it speaks volumes.

  He doesn’t want to talk about what I saw.

  I let it go for now.

  We work together in silence, me making us another pot of coffee and Porter finishing up the rest of the pancakes.

  We’re setting out our mugs and plates when Kyrie comes leaping back into the kitchen and right up to the table, jumping into her chair.

  “Let’s eat! Hey, wait a second. I’m missing my—”

  “Here you go,” Porter interrupts, sliding another mug onto the table. “Like I could forget.”

  I raise my brow at the cup of coffee sitting in front of his daughter.

  Decaf, he
mouths.

  Thank god, I say back.

  He laughs, and I enjoy the best pancakes of my life.

  * * *

  If I didn’t need this money more than anything and I wasn’t totally in love with Kyrie, I’d have quit this job after the first day. It was clear right away that night we spent together touched us in ways we weren’t expecting and we were ill-equipped to deal with that reality. Pretending we had our shit together was easy at first, but it’s getting harder.

  But since I do need this money, I’ll settle for hiding.

  Nothing sexual has happened between us since The Pantry Thing, but there’s something else that’s been causing me to run from him every chance I can.

  Ever since I sat down with Porter and Kyrie Wednesday morning, things have felt so…well, domestic.

  It feels so natural it’s become unsettling.

  So, I hide.

  It’s crushing to simply be in the same room as him. To remember what he looked like naked. How his brows pinched together as he fell apart. The way my name sounded on his lips when it was whispered softly.

  It’s all just too much, and I have to get away before I explode or say or do something stupid.

  Like kiss him.

  If I’m in the kitchen and Porter walks in, I suddenly remember I need to switch over Kyrie’s laundry.

  If I’m playing with Kyrie and he checks in on us, I excuse myself to the bathroom. It’s so frequent I’m certain he thinks I have IBS or a urinary tract infection.

  Since I live in his house and I’m in his space, it’s the only defense mechanism I’ve got, but even that is slowly starting to not be enough because everywhere I turn, he’s there.

  Today is my birthday—not that he knows—and I’m going to ask him if I can have a few hours off tonight to go out by myself.

  I need a break.

  I need comfort food.

  Maybe even a drink.

  I mean, I did turn twenty-one today—it’d be silly not to have at least one drink on my twenty-first birthday, right?

  Taking a deep breath and squaring my shoulders, I glide into the kitchen as cheerily as I can.

  “Good morning,” I say to him with the brightest smile I can muster.

  Only my pasted-on smile is pointless. He’s not even looking my way. His face is buried in his phone.

  I try not to be disappointed when I see he’s dressed for leaving the house today.

  Disappointed? You should be thrilled. You won’t have to run and hide all day.