I didn’t tell her I was coming. I didn’t even know myself until I cut the engine and discovered I’d arrived at the Donner Bakery parking lot right off the kitchen.
It was still Monday night. I’d just left her father to marinate in my threat. At first, as was typical, he’d denied my accusation. The usual order was: denial, anger, then bargaining. Bargaining was usually my favorite part. Not this time. Something about bargaining for his cooperation left my mouth tasting like sawdust and lemon.
I wanted him to accept that Jennifer’s decisions belonged to her and her alone. Who she associated with, what she wore, what she did wasn’t up to him, or his wife, or their son.
He refused to accept that his daughter was capable of making her own decisions. However, in the end, he conceded to my demands that he not interfere. We’d made terms: he would back off and support my courting his daughter and I wouldn’t filet his life.
I stared at the back of the building, knowing Jennifer was inside. Jennifer’s car was parked closest to the door. My heart did one of its kamikaze leaps against my ribcage.
I’d missed her. I was asphyxiating with how much I’d missed her.
She’s busy. You should let her work . . .
Instead, I set forth.
After the unpleasantness with her daddy, I needed to see that she was well. I decided there was no harm in stopping by for a few minutes. Maybe I would show her The New Yorker article on verbing. Maybe I’d just stare at her and listen to her talk. That sounded nice.
I strolled with purpose to the back door. I knocked. I waited. There was no answer. I knocked again. Still no answer.
Finding the door open, I frowned. The door shouldn’t have been unlocked. I would have to remind her to lock it when I left and make sure it was locked from now on.
“Jennifer?” I called, closing the door behind me, locking it, and searching the kitchen. The lights were on, a mixer sat on the counter with ingredients and such scattered about, but she was nowhere in sight.
I was just about to search the front when she appeared from the back pantry, carrying a bag of flour. I stopped dead in my tracks as my eyes moved over her form. Her back was to me and it was completely naked from her neck to the tie around her waist.
Jennifer had on an apron, red lace underwear, stockings, and nothing else.
I must’ve made a sound, though I didn’t recall doing so, because she spun, her eyes wide, and gasped.
“Oh my God!” Jumping, she dropped the bag of flour and it spilled over the floor. Her hands flew to her chest—which was mostly covered by the apron. Mostly.
She breathed out, closing her eyes, then her next breath was a relieved laugh. “Oh my God, you scared me. I didn’t hear you come in.”
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. I was too busy re-memorizing every curve of her luscious body, barely concealed by the thin layer of cotton. My mouth watered. I wasn’t fixating on a fantasy or memories from Friday because the generosity of reality drove every other thought from my mind.
Silence both stretched and thickened . . . and so did other things.
But then she lifted her lashes, looked at me with her impossible violet eyes, and said in her sweet way, “I missed you.”
CHAPTER 24
“Civilized people must, I believe, satisfy the following criteria. . . Their hearts suffer the pain of what is hidden to the naked eye.”
― Anton Chekhov, A Life in Letters
Jennifer
“I missed you.” The words erupted, slipping from my lips before I could catch them. They’d been running through my mind for the last three days.
I miss him. I miss Cletus.
Actually, the sentiment had been running through my mind before Friday, but I’d been shushing the thought, pushing it away. Before Friday, I’d thought missing Cletus was futile, because I thought it would be endless.
But since Friday . . .
Happy sigh.
I’d gone back to the Piggly Wiggly first thing on Saturday morning to collect the bananas. I didn’t want to be a scaredy-cat or ask Cletus to come with me. I’d been picking up the bananas on my own for years, no reason to stop now. But I did conduct a sweep of the parking lot before leaving my car. And I asked Mr. Johnson—the produce manager—to walk me out to my car.
Presently, I was smiling at Cletus, like a goof, lost in his chaotically handsome features.
Cletus’s eyes moved over me slowly, as though he hadn’t seen me in a long time. “I missed you, too.” His voice was gruff and had my stomach erupting with butterflies. Beautiful, lovely, velvety butterflies. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and twisted his lips to the side. “That’s an interesting outfit.”
I glanced down at myself and that’s when I saw—to my horror—that I was basically half-dressed.
“Oh my God! Look at me.” I endeavored to cover myself with my arms, trying and failing. “Wait. Don’t look at me! Crap! Turn around!”
Cletus lifted an eyebrow at my demand. “Really?”