“Yes,” she agrees. “I’m right upstairs, though, if you need anything. Don’t put any pans on the front burners, and just watch that nothing splatters if you turn the stovetop on, and…”
I turn around, leaning against the counter, watching her tick off items on her fingers, mentally running through every possible catastrophe that might befall Olivia while she’s upstairs. “Got it. No deep frying on the stove when the baby is on the floor,” I say, “or dangling hot pans in front of her.”
Autumn sticks her tongue out at me. “I’m sure there are other dangerous things I’m forgetting.”
“She’s allowed to play with knives, right?”
Autumn narrows her eyes at me. “I think that was sarcastic, but on the off chance that it’s not…”
“That was incredibly sarcastic,” I say. “Everyone knows toddlers can only peel potatoes, not use chopping knives.”
“Fine,” she says. “I’m leaving.”
“I hope so.”
I wait until she’s walking away to squat down in front of Olivia. “Are you thirsty?” I ask. “You drink out of a glass now, don’t you? I brought wine."
“I heard that!” Autumn yells from the stairway.
Fifteen minutes later, Lucy is gnawing on a treat. Olivia is lying on the floor nearby, playing with oversized Lego blocks I found in the living room. I’m trying to put the finishing touches on a tower when Autumn walks in. “Having fun?”
“Actually, yeah,” I say, adding a makeshift turret to the top. I’m about to make a smart-ass comment about something when I look up at her and promptly lose all ability to speak. I just stand up, staring like an idiot. She’s wearing this simple black dress that’s anything but plain, her hair dry now and piled up on top of her head, little pieces spilling down the sides of her face, and no shoes. For some reason, the fact that she’s not wearing shoes, that she's barefoot with the little black dress, pushes the whole thing over the edge. It makes her look unfinished, undone, and it's a thousand times sexier than if she were all dressed up.
I have the sudden-and-not-entirely-sinking feeling that she’s going to be my undoing.
“I haven’t worn anything other than jeans in longer than I care to remember,” she says.
“It’s… yeah.” God, I’m an idiot. A complete and total idiot.
Autumn flushes, pink on her cheeks the way she does when she’s self-conscious. Or when she’s… underneath me, her lips slightly parted. I shake off the image that immediately springs to mind. “Thanks,” she says, her voice uncertain.
Crossing the room, I brush my lips against her cheek as I slide my hand around her waist. “You’re breathtaking,” I say. “Sorry, I lost my words there for a minute.”
“You?” she asks, a hint of a smile on her lips. “At a loss for words?”
Autumn plays with Olivia, and I cook for them – grilled chicken and linguini for Olivia, pork chops set aside for us, but only wine right now, until after Olivia eats and plays and has her bath and falls asleep. It’s seven-thirty when Autumn comes downstairs from Olivia’s bedroom. “You didn’t have to do all this,” she says.
“Pork chops?” I ask, my back toward her while I sear them. “They’re really easy to do, you know. I could show you how.”
“Oh?” She leans with her elbows back on the counter beside me, her back arching up, pushing her breasts up higher in the air.
My dick hardens just looking at her. “Not if you keep standing there looking like that,” I say. “I won’t be able to focus on teaching you anything.”
“Well, not about food, anyway,” she says, smiling.
“I’m not sure you need help in any other department.”
“It smells wonderful,” she says. She picks up a bottle on the counter. “Are you cooking with my cider?”
“I'm using it in a glaze,” I tell her.
“That’s so cool. I’ve thought about talking to one of the restaurants downtown about doing a seasonal menu with my ciders or something, like a tasting thing.”
“You should,” I encourage her. “I’m sure one of the restaurants could feature them really well.”
When we sit down, she takes a mouthful of food and moans. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Nowhere special,” I tell her. “It’s really relaxing.”
“You should be a chef, you know.”
I laugh. “You’re the first person to tell me that.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. I’m sure you’ve been told that a thousand times.”
I shrug. “I don’t really cook for anyone. Guys I work with, sometimes, but they’re not exactly connoisseurs. And it's never anything fancy. Venison chili, that kind of thing.”
“When do you have to go back to the smoke jumping?”
I give a nonchalant shrug. “It’s on and off, you know? I take contracts, work when I can find it, or when I want to.”
“You don’t ever stay in the same place?”
“Not… ever,” I answer.
Shit. Not yet, is what I almost say. What I nearly say, but not quite.
I never really wanted to before.
It’s the thought that pops into my head, except I don’t say it.
25
Autumn